Real or Not Real?
by ChasetheWindTouchtheSky
Summary: When the after effects are too difficult to manage, the trio tries something supernatural, albiet dangerous, to fix it. Something goes awry, but when do their plans ever work out? Besides - 2 out of 3 should be considered a success, right? But for one, the lines between illusion and reality blend even more, settling to 'Possible Death.' Oh, okay - 'Imminent Death.' T for Language.
1. When Is a Door Not a Door?

**Hey! This is my first Teen Wolf fanfiction, so be gentle! Someone on Tumblr asked for an extended scene after Stiles' nightmare and I quickly made one, but then realized how much I loved writing it! The premiere has me stoked, so I thought I'd do a longer fic to pass the time.**

**Now, I don't expect this to be the route the show takes it at all, but I had this idea when I was thinking about how the darkness can affect each of them – and what would happen if it manifested in one person?**

Chapter 1

_When Is a Door Not a Door?_

"Not to sound like a broken record here, but do we all remember the last time you all did this?" Isaac drawls, leaning against the wall.

"It's hard to forget when you _keep reminding us_," Stiles snaps, rubbing his hands together.

It's not like he could forget anyways.

Stiles notices Isaac's eyes flit toward Allison ever-so-slightly, even though he knows the gesture isn't missed by Scott. He can see Scott's jaw clench as he stares straight into Deaton's eyes, pretending not to notice. Stiles sighed. Before he's be mildly annoyed by the creation of this love triangle. Stiles might've even commented on something. But if anything, it was a welcome distraction for what he was staring at.

Rubbing his hands together, Stiles stares at the tubs of ice water. He closes his eyes. _Is this a dream?_ He asks himself, wishing there'd be an answer. There never was.

_That_ was the terrifying thing. It wasn't the fact that he was hallucinating at all. It was the fact that he couldn't trust anything. His eyes darted everywhere he went, he felt as though he was on the brink of a panic attack at any second, his vision wavered from time to time – it all happened all the time. Who could live like this? Who could survive?

Well, if Kira was right, no one.

"Too bad I had to torch this Polar Plunge experience on Yelp," Stiles says, trying to break the tension in the room. Between everyone ignoring the tubs of ice water, Scott ignoring Isaac, Allison ignoring Isaac, Isaac ignoring Scott and Lydia examining her nails as she grinned to herself for no longer being the crazy one, he felt the need to break the silence. It didn't fall like his usual jokes did, because nothing of this was funny. And no one was even trying to laugh. Stiles reaches his hand out to the side of the tub, trying to calm his fingers from quaking. He shivers when his palm presses against the cool steel, his body shaking. "I mean, great build up, but horrible after effects, amirite?"

"Stiles," Scott breathes, but Stiles can't help himself.

"It's not that I don't think you're a very hospitable—" Stiles struggles for the word as he gestures at Deaton. "Ambiguous Supernatural Vet Man. I'm just giving you a few critiques so you can improve your experience for future guests. We all know that a little constructive criticism never hurt anyone."

"I have some constructive criticism for you," Isaac says. "_Shut up._"

Stiles glares out of default, but he knows he's rambling. He can't help it. His gaze keeps catching sight of the water and he's trying to convince himself that having a panic attack wouldn't help anything. It wouldn't help anyone. He has to keep talking to get all the energy out, otherwise it'll manifest in his hands.

"Is there any other pleasant ways to kill us?" Stiles asks and a few people groan. "I get it – drowning and hypothermia, a tried and true method. But has anyone considered perhaps a sleeping spell? I know it's very Disney, but werewolves exist and I think—"

He stops.

It happens like it always does.

A sign. A sign he wouldn't pay attention to under any normal circumstance. Something about getting your animal shots or loving dogs – Stiles didn't know. Seriously didn't know. All the letters weren't making sense. His hands gripped the sides of the tank.

"Stiles—" He hears, but it sounds far away. It's not annoyed like before, but he's too focus to figure out the emotion.

"Don't let them in," he mutters to himself, but he isn't aware that he's doing it. "Don't let them in,"

The letters start dripping from the poster.

His grip tightens. Stiles feels a catch in his chest, like someone's punctured his lung and he can't get them to quite fill right. He thinks someone's beside him, but the letters. The fucking letters – they're falling to the floor. "When is a door not a door," he repeats to himself quietly. There needs to be words to fill the silence. "When is a door not a door, when is a door not a door? Do not let them in. Don't let them in."

The hole in his chest gets bigger. It feels like a void and darkness is peeking around the corners of his vision. "Don't let them in." He has to fill the silence. Stiles always has to fill the silence. "When is a door not a—"

"_Stiles!"_

Someone grabs his wrists and yanks him away from the tub, throwing him against the wall. Stiles slams against the back wall, blinking as he tries to get his vision into focus. His breathing slows and when he's calm enough, he looks up to a face he doesn't expect. Isaac.

Isaac stares at his hands before returning his gaze to Stiles. There's something behind his eyes – is it fear? Pity? Stiles isn't sure.

"Dude!" Scott cries, grabbing Isaac's shoulder and yanking him around. "What the hell was that? You could've seriously hurt him or sent him further into his panic attack!"

"I-I don't know," Isaac says, looking back at his hands. "He wasn't breathing a-and I thought, maybe if I-I shock—"

"Scott, it's fine," Stiles says, albeit shakily, as he steadies himself to stand. A few people gesture to help him, but he's up before they can. "It worked, didn't it?" He rubs the back of his head. "Can't a guy go a few days without a head injury?" He tries to joke.

No one laughs.

Isaac gives him a mournful look. "You guys really have to do this, don't you?" He asks quietly. "This – This is real and it's bad, isn't it?"

No one answers. No one has to.

After a few resigned seconds pass, Deaton clears his throat. "If we're going to do this, we better get started. Now, as you know, this may not achieve the results you want." Stiles stares at the floor. He's heard the spiel before. No human can live like this. A human isn't prepared for the strife. They weren't built strong enough.

Maybe it was him who wasn't built strong enough.

The three take their places besides the tubs. "There is a different chemical balance in this bath and we are on a time limit. Because you've already died and been brought back, we have to do this under the human body specifications. If you are not revived within an hour, we'll have to bring you back."

"An hour?" Allison asks. "That's all we get?"

Deaton nods solemnly. "As you can see, there is great risk. You could be doing more harm than good if things go awry. That's why, for the last time, I have to ask you. Are you sure you want to take such a drastic measure?"

The three look at each other. Sure, there's fear. But there's also resignation.

"We do this." Scott says definitively. "That's what we do. We may not always have the best plans and they may not always go how we hoped, but we try. We'll never stop trying."

Stiles smirks. "We're impudent little bastards that way."

He tries to keep the smirk on until he's underwater. If he's going to die, he'd like it to be with some semblance of himself.

**XXX**

"No!" Stiles screams. "No! No, no! Wake up, Stiles! Wake up! This isn't real!"

"Son!"

The Sherriff is in the room quicker by the night. Before Stiles can flail out of bed, his father has him in a vice-grip, pressing him against his chest. "I got you, kid. I got you." He whispers in his son's ear. "It's okay, I got you."

Stiles grips his dad's arms, his entire body trembling. "They were going to get in. Deaton was going to let them in."

"It's not happening, Stiles."

"I-It was going to get worse!" He wails, his entire body trembling. "It was going to get s-so much worse!"

"It's not, Stiles!" Mr. Stilinski says forcefully. "You are fine. You are here and you are fine!"

"They were going to come in!" Stiles whimpers. "When is a door not a door?"

Mr. Stilinski closes his eyes. If he had a dollar for every time Stiles muttered that riddle out the past few weeks, he wouldn't need to be so worried about losing his job. "There's no door, Stiles. It's shut. It'll always be shut as long as I'm here."

Stiles grips him and shuts his eyes, hoping, for once, the darkness would be a comfort. "They were going to come in."

**XXX**

Stiles doesn't even look at the signs on the walls. It's to the point he can't decipher what's real or not real and, even though he hasn't entirely given up on trying, he doesn't like the reminder every day. So he ignores the signs that paper the school hallway and their jumbled letters.

"Dude, you look like crap." Scott says when he sees Stiles.

"Hello Stiles, how are you? I'm doing great Scott, thank you for being such a considerate friend." Stiles murmurs as he heads to his locker. With once glance at the jumbled symbols, he sighs. Lifting the lock up to Scott, Stiles presses his head against the locker while Scott fiddles with the dial. Stiles hears the click and grimaces. How did this become his life – his own friend has to unlock a door for him?

"Seriously, though." Scott says quietly. "This whole not sleeping thing is getting out of hand. You look wrecked."

"That's because I _am_ wrecked, Scott." Stiles murmurs, putting his books away. "I don't need a recap about my less-than-Chippendales appearance because I'm gloriously aware, thank you."

"Stiles—"

"Have you seen Lydia?" Stiles asks suddenly. He's not sure why, but the impulse to see her hits him like an electrical current. It's strange – he's been in love with her for years, but this was more than yearning. A part of him needed to see her, so desperately, it felt like his heart was going to explode from his chest.

Scott shrugs. "Not yet. She's probably driving Allison to school, you know, with everything."

"Yeah," Stiles says, not convinced. He gazes around, but still no sight of her. "Maybe they stopped for coffee or something."

"Yeah, dude, that's probably it." Scott says eagerly, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's just get to class and get this day over with."

Stiles glances around the hallway once more, as if he's not entirely convinced it's real. To be honest, he isn't. "Right. Class."

**XXX**

He can't pay attention more than usual. Stiles blinks from time to time to encourage his presence in this world, but only receives worried looks from Scott. Stiles has to angle himself away so he doesn't keep seeing that face Scott uses when he's trying to get you to open up to him. Sometimes the dog similarities are too much with those puppy dog eyes. Good thing he'd built an immunity up against it for years.

Stiles finds himself gazing around for Lydia, even though she isn't even in this class. He can't get over it – this desire, this feeling to see her. It's like something is pulling at him. He needed to see Lydia. He needed to see her right now, otherwise it felt like his chest would explode.

"I need to use the bathroom." Stiles states.

Not a question. He's out of his desk before the teacher can even protest.

Stiles bursts into the hallway, peering around. "Lydia?" He calls. It's stupid for him to do so and he knows. He feels foolish doing it. He waits for people to poke their heads out the door at his stupidity, but it never happens.

_Creak._

Stiles whirls around, the sound of a door opening causing panic to course through him. "Lydia?" He calls again, but it's weaker. His chest heaves.

The lights in the hallway flicker. Or, maybe they don't. Maybe it's because his breath is shortening. Maybe it's because dots are forming around his eyes.

He sees her.

Stiles sprints down the hallway, every breath more difficult than the last. It seems like it takes ages to reach her, even though he knows logically it's not true. Not that logic really ever helped him in the first place.

She's standing there. She stares at him. _At _him. Her glassy gaze hits his chest and he waves a hand in front of her face. "Lydia? Are you alright?" He shakes her shoulders a bit. "Lydia, seriously, are you okay?"

She doesn't say anything.

The lights are definitely flickering.

Stiles turns around, trying to keep calm. This is no place to panic. This is no place to panic. This no place to—

_WAKE UP._

Stiles stares. All the posters – all the signs he'd been deliberately ignoring all day – only have one sentence on them. Once sentence written over and over again.

_WAKE UP. _

_WAKE UP WAKE UP._

_WAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUP._

"Oh my God," Stiles breathes, stumbling to remain on his feet. "Oh my—"

Lydia's eyes awaken. Stiles stares in fear as she scrunches her face.

Emitting a high-pitched, terrifying scream, Lydia covers her ears. All the letters on the poster start to shake, crumbling as if made from ash. Stiles clamps his hands over his ears, watching the letters disintegrate and pool on the floor, covering the linoleum tiles with blackness.

"Wake up!" He screams. "Wake up, Stiles!"

The blackness creeps closer to him and Lydia. Removing his hands from his head, Stiles reaches out and pulls Lydia close to him. Her scream pierces his ears, but he makes not move to cover his ears again, but just holds her close.

The scream stops.

Lydia leans in close and whispers gently, "Wake up Stiles."

**XXX**

"_NO!"_

Stiles leaps to his feet.

Surrounded by white, he's never felt so alone. He can feel the energy pulsing in the room, like he's not supposed to be here, but it's exactly where he needs to be.

He maneuvers around, trying to get a grip on his breathing. It takes him several minutes before he recognizes the three tubs. Even more before he notices the doors.

He careful steps closer to the tubs, afraid of what lies within their depths. Peering over the edge, his heart palpitates when he sees the still bodies of Scott and Allison within the depths of their water. They look dead. Well, he supposes they are, but it's different to see them. He can understand why Isaac didn't want to do this again. Peeking in his tub, he's surprised to find it empty.

That's when he realizes he's completely wet.

Placing his hand on his chest, he stares at the doors. "This is real," he murmurs to himself. The doors sit at the head of each tub, each door slightly ajar from its necessary resting place. "I hope to God this is real."

Stiles stares at Scott and Allison. "Wake up!" He shouts, gripping the sides of their tubs. "For the love of God, wake up!" He shakes them, but they remain underwater. Their eyes do not open. They do not wake.

Stiles stares at his door. It's barely open. It's frustrating that such a simple crack would wreak so much havoc on his life. He makes a step toward it, but stops when he sees Scott and Allison again.

Groaning, he rushes over to Scott's door. It doesn't budge upon impact, so he anchors himself against Scott's tub, screaming as he pushes the door. Ice water pours on his back as he does and he cries out. But he doesn't stop. Not until he hears the resounding slam of the door in its frame.

The same technique is used for Allison. It takes even longer, her door pushed a little further than Scott's. By the time he's finished, Stile's is panting, his muscles aching everywhere. He presses his cheek against the ground, the cold floor nice.

One door left.

Stiles reaches out, dragging himself across the ground to his door. Wrapping his fingers around the side of his door, Stiles uses it to pull himself forward.

_Creak_.

The door nudges open.

"Shit," Stiles curses when it opens wider. "Shit, shit, shit."

He scrambles to his feet, watching as the door continues to move away from the frame. Nothing is on the other side but an immense blackness – devoid of  
an color that would make it friendlier. It looks like the end of everything.

Stiles presses his back against the door and tries to get it to move. It does so begrudgingly, but after several minutes of heavy exertion, it's still wide open.

Darkness surrounds his eyes. "No," Stiles breaths, but his hands are already falling. He can hear his labored breathing as if it's the only sound in the world. "No, please."

His hands slide from the frame. He can't hold up his head. He doesn't get another plea out before it gets dark.

**XXX**

"I have researched many ways to kill people and not get caught, so help me, Stiles Stilinski!"

Stiles winces at the shrill voice. He coughs and a loud smattering of sighs echo around him. "Dammit, Stilinski!"

Stiles blinks a few times and finds himself overwhelmingly surrounded by everyone. "'Sup guys? Why are you invading my personal space so elegantly?"

"Yup, he's fine." Isaac chuckles.

Everyone smiles.

"I take it you were as unsuccessful as we were?" Scott says, offering a hand to his best friend and helping him up. Stiles finds it odd that he's lying on the vet's table and gives Scott a look. "Dude, you weren't waking up. After our hour was up, Allison and I got out just fine, but you wouldn't wake up. Deaton was about to go all crazy vet on you."

Stiles smiles weakly. "Well, you know I have a flair for the dramatic."

Allison looks down. "So this was pointless."

But there's something different about them, Stiles notices. They're standing up straighter, their eyes brighter. In fact, Allison has color in her cheeks for the first time in weeks and Scott's smiling freely.

"That was real." Stiles mutters to himself. He can't shake the vision of his open door from his mind and his gaze falls to the ground.

"You didn't answer my question," Scott asks again, but Stiles is barely paying attention. "I guess it didn't really work for you either?"

Stiles looks at all of them. "Wha – oh, no. Totally pointless. It was a nice nap, though."

Finally, some people laugh.

Except one person. One person stands in the back, his arms crossed, studying Stiles very carefully. Deaton arches an eyebrow, looking from Scott and Allison back to Stiles. Stiles purses his lips. The message is very clear. He lie was very strong.

It only didn't convince one person.

**A/N: What'd you think? I tried to adapt the style of the show – jumping within dreams. I hope I *may* have fooled one person (in my dreams – right)?**

**If you have time, tell me what you think in a review and if you think it's worth continuing. I'm super stoked about this new season!**


	2. What Comes Down, But Never Comes Up?

**Wow! You guys are so sweet! You responded to this so much nicer than I initially thought anyone would, so let me thank you!**

**My goal for the rest of this is to try and trick you/Stiles about what's ACTUALLY going on. Don't worry – it'll be grounded (not one trick after another) and will have a sense of plot, but a sense around how he sees it and the fears he has about the door in his mind now being wide open.**

**Also, I realized I should explain: the title isn't a vague reference to Mockingjay. I think I've figured out what I want to do plot-wise and it'll refer to something Stiles will decide to do this chapter, hopefully to help him sort everything out. Shall we begin?**

**Quickly- One thing I noticed in the show is, when Stiles was looking at his history book, I think the words were scrambled like an anagram (all the letters were there to spell 'Allies and Axis'), so I'm gonna use anagrams when he can't read things to make it easier.**

Chapter 2

_What Comes Down, But Never Goes Up?_

The clock shines _6:46_.

There's a light tapping on Stiles' door, so he closes his eyes, pretending he's been in a quiet stupor this entire night, dreamlessly sleeping. He wishes.

As if he could sleep after their attempt to close the doors to their minds. All Stiles could think of when he shut his eyes was the immense darkness on the other side of his wide-open door, sitting at the edge of the frame like an army waiting for battle. And, if he understands the true meaning of what he did, the war is about to begin.

"Kiddo, time to wake up or you'll be late for school" His dad calls, opening the cracked door. Mr. Stilinski had a habit of cracking it on his way to his own bedroom, afraid of sleeping through any more night terrors his son may have. The cracked door scared Stiles a while, but now? Doors slightly ajar are the least of his worries.

He tries to take comfort in the fact that perhaps, if he had some semblance of luck, that Scott and Allison may be able to return to their own lives. They might have a darkness still, but maybe it won't seep into their subconscious anymore. He tries to take comfort, but finds none. It has nothing to do with indifference or how he feels about either, but his own fear in the matter.

That was the truth, wasn't it? He was so damn afraid, he couldn't even feel happy for his best friends. That's where he was in his life and didn't know how to erase it. "I'm a terrible person," Stiles breathes, pulling his shirt over his head.

His breath catches.

Running his hands along his skin, he flinches at the sight of purple and blue. "What the—" Stiles murmurs, rushing over to the mirror.

Splotches of purple and blue run up his sides. Stiles is afraid to touch them, because he isn't sure if this moment is real. But right now, the pain feels real. So instead, he steps closer to the mirror, placing his fingers against the glass and covers up the bruises.

He didn't even notice them when he was lying in bed. Sure, he was aching, but he just thought that was a result of being terrified all the time. Or the cost of living in nightmares.

That isn't the most terrifying thought, though.

As Stiles drives to school, something flashes through his mind and he attempts for the rest of the drive to push it out of his senses, but to no avail. The scariest thought isn't that his dreams are turning violent. It isn't even that this could mean that he was losing the battle and moving on to the last progressive stage of Barto.

It was that, if this wasn't a dream and those bruises were real, he doesn't remember how he got them in the first place.

His mind was now keeping reality from him, hiding it so it blurred the line of reality even more.

He hops out of his Jeep, a stiffness coming over him. BLANCH SOLE I displays where the BEACON HILLS sign once was and Stiles stares at the school.

What is real?

What's the point if it isn't? Why would he go to school again and again, having the same conversations with people, if he would just wake up and it's over? Why would he put himself through that?

The thought has his mind reeling, the sign before the school swirling a little. He grips his chest, his breathing coming a little shorter, sweat starting to form on his forehead.

"Stiles!" Someone shouts and they clap a hand on his back. The action startles him and he notices his fists are clenched, his palms red where his nails dug into his skin. "You okay, man?"

Stiles blinks when Isaac stands next to him. "W-What – oh, yeah Isaac. Hey."

Isaac studies him carefully, before saying, "You don't look alright. You've been acting a little strange since yesterday. I hope I didn't hurt you when I pushed you into the wall."

_1…_

Stiles shakes his head, his gaze fixated at Isaac's hands at his sides. "Huh? Oh, it's—"

_…2…_

"—not a problem, I—"

_…3, 4, 5…_

"—know I was being super—"

_…6,7,8…_

"—annoying—"

_…9. 10._

He sighs. Isaac has all of his fingers. "I was just a little nervous to die for the second time in a month."

Isaac frowns. "Stiles, this is real." He states.

"What? Yeah, I know."

"No, I don't think you do." Isaac says. "And I'm here to tell you this is real. You and are having a conversation."

"Dude, I _know_." Stiles grits his teeth, his annoyance creeping up on him. "I was just—"

"Guys!"

Scott jogs to join the two, a large smile on his face. Stiles tries to remember the last time he saw it, but can't. He can't even thinking of smiling as a function. Was it getting hot outside? Why can't he take a normal breath?

The air was suffocating.

Scott's jaw twitches when he sees Isaac and gives him a curt nod. "Wow," Stiles mutters, blinking a few times to get the darkness around his eyes to go away. "You guys must be a real treat to live with right now."

Scott throws him a look. "What were you two talking about?"

Isaac quickly says "School" as Stiles says "Food."

"God, that's not conspicuous at all," Stiles groans, rubbing his hands down his face. "Isaac here felt the need to tell me that this is happening in real time, because apparently, I'm crazier than a straw."

The two of them stare at him.

He blinks. "What? That wasn't even the crazy talking – you know, like crazy straws that loop all around?" Still nothing. "You know what? You both suck, I'm hilarious."

He mumbles to himself as he pushes past the two wolves, but Scott calls out after him. "Wait, Stiles! Deaton wanted me to tell you that he wants you to stop by after school, if you can."

Stiles stiffens. Without turning around – he's not entirely sure he can keep his facial expression neutral at the moment – he asks, "Did he say what for?"

"No, he just said it was really important."

Stiles grips the straps of his backpack and murmurs, "I'm sure he did."

**XXX**

"Hello?" Stiles calls out, opening the door to the veterinary clinic. There's clanging from the back room, so he assumes it's okay to let himself in the back. But when he does, he hesitates in the doorway.

"Stiles?" Scott asks, rearranging some of the vials on the counter. "Oh yeah, I forgot you were coming over after school!"

Stiles looks from Scott to Deaton, who's visage is dripping with concern. Seeing Scott there made him panic; the last thing he needed was Scott to find out about his 'limbo state' and the problems that arose from it. "I-I can come back," he states, gripping his backpack uneasily. "I'll just catch you some other time."

"No, Stiles, wait." Deaton says and Stiles doesn't know why he does. He doesn't want to talk about it at all, least of all with his best friend standing in the room. How would he be when he finds out that his mental door is wide open – and Stiles couldn't even be happy that his best friend's was shut? "Stiles, I think you know why I asked you here."

Stiles clenches his jaw. "I'd really prefer not to discuss this right now."

"Oh," Deaton states. "So would you rather you wait further and let the repercussions of your actions eat you alive?"

Stiles whips around, his eyes flashing. He almost yells at Deaton to shut up, but he catches Scott's eye and hesitates.

Scott peers between both of them. "Okay, am I missing something?"

"You did this on purpose." Stiles snaps. "You waited until he would be here."

"Okay, I'm definitely missing something."

Deaton remains calm, even though Scott's looking at him expectantly and Stiles is attempting to formulate every amount of wrath he can to intimidate him. Which, to be honest, isn't much. "Stiles, I need you to walk me through what happened during the ritual. What did you do?"

Stiles purses his lips, but doesn't say anything.

Scott turns to him. "You said – you said it didn't work. You said that you didn't see or do anything." Scott's looking between the two of them. He presses further, "That's what you _said_, Stiles. That's what you told me."

Stiles grits his teeth and looks at the ground. "You did this on purpose."

Deaton remains stoic. "I believe he has a right to know what you did."

Stiles waves his hands. "Then why doesn't Allison have a right to know what I did!"

"So you did do something!"

"Allison doesn't work here." Deaton states. "Stiles, you woke up in your subconscious state, didn't you? You went back to the room and your door." Stiles doesn't answer, so Deaton peers at him curiously. "But you didn't close your door, did you?"

Stiles' lower lip trembles when he thinks of the imminent dark on the other side of his door. "…no."

Scott gasps. "What the hell, dude? Why didn't you shut your damn door when you had the chance!"

Stiles can't bring himself to respond. Instead, he doesn't something he tries to avoid on most days. He stares at the signs he can't read and he looks for reasons why this might be a dream. The windows look darker than usual. Some of the animal eyes glow.

But is it real, or is he hoping it's real?

"You closed Scott and Allison's instead." Deaton finishes.

The silence that settles over the three of them is suffocating. Stiles feels his hands tremble and he closes them into fists. He can feel Scott staring at him, but he refuses to look up.

"Stiles—"

"Dude, it's nothing." Stiles says hastily. "I just couldn't get to my door in time. It didn't work out. That's that." He continues to avoid his gaze. "But, hopefully you two should be totally fine, so that's good news. I mean 2 out of 3 is a passing grade. 66%. I mean, if we could get the conviction rate for crimes around here to 66%, I'm sure my dad would be able to keep his job."

"Stiles—"

"Please, can we just not talk about this?" Stiles bellows and Scott grows quiet. He stares at his best friend and Stiles doesn't blame him. He can't remember the last time he shouted at Scott in all seriousness.

"That's not all you did." Deaton states. "I noticed it the second you came to. The reason it took us so long to wake you up."

Something flashes in Deaton's eyes. For a second, Stiles is afraid of him. No, afraid didn't cover it.

Petrified.

The room feels like it's swallowing him. Are the walls curving toward him? Did Deaton's eyes just flicker to the vials by the medicine rack?

"You opened the door wider, didn't you Stiles?" Deaton asks. Stiles can't bring himself to answer, but he steps back.

When did the door close?

"You opened your door. Now your mind is wide open." Deaton states. "The darkness has a free host. All they have to do is realize it."

"W-What are you talking about, boss?" Scott asks, his shoulders tensing at Deaton's words.

Stiles is heaving. Is he breathing? Maybe not.

"Do you understand what that means, Stiles?" Deaton says, taking a few steps closer to him. Stiles' quivering hand reaches for the door, but it's locked.

Great, this door is locked. Fucking doors.

"Do you understand the danger you're bringing here, Stiles?" Deaton asks. "The danger you are to your friends? To your father?"

Deaton picks a syringe off the counter as he moves closer. Stiles shakes the doorknob behind him a few more times, his heart pounding. "Do you understand what needs to be done, Stiles?"

"P-Please—" Stiles whimpers. "I-I can close my door. I-I'll figure out another way."

Deaton looms closer to him, popping the lid off the syringe and bring the needle close to his face. The silver piece of metal gleams and Stiles winces. Needles. He definitely isn't breathing now. "Do you know what you do to a sick dog, Stiles? A dog that is so far gone, there's nothing that can make its life better?"

Tears start to drip from his eyes. "P-Please, p-please d-don't—" but he can't muster any further breath to plead anymore. Why isn't Scott stopping him? Why is he by himself with this?

Why is he so alone?

"You put it out of its misery."

**XXX**

"NO!"

Stiles screams, jolting awake. "_No, no, no!"_

He doesn't think he's been breathing because every attempt is like sprinting a marathon. His entire body shakes. Stiles rolls and falls to the ground, clutching his head. "P-Please don't kill me," he sobs. "Don't kill me."

He screams dwindle, but not from lack of trying. Every time he opens his mouth, it feels like a werewolf is running his claws down his throat. He waits for his father to burst through the door and constrict him, but he realizes tonight he's got the graveyard shift and so Stiles is alone.

Stiles is entirely alone.

With shaking hands, Stiles reaches up to his desk, knocking items off as he desperately tries to find his phone. He winces as a few things hit his head, but he can't get up off the ground. When his phone is finally found, he tries to type a few numbers, but can't get his fingers to work. Instead, he simply presses redial.

The phone seems to ring forever.

"H-Hello?" A sleepy voice on the other side of the line asks.

Just like that, he doesn't feel quite like he's going to die.

But he can't answer, either. His breaths are too erratic, too close together to fit a word in there – even a syllable.

"Stiles?" The person's sleepiness vanishes. "Stiles, is that you? What's wrong?"

A whimper escapes his throat as a response. The person on the other line starts talking a mile a minute. "Stiles, listen to me. Listen to me right now. I need you to focus on your breathing. I can't get over there quick enough, so you're going to have to do this."

"…I…can't…"

"Yes you can, Stiles. Yes you can." The person says sternly. "You actively live in a world with werewolves and somehow have no died. You can do this."

It's not helping. His body is freezing. Everything's going cold. The air isn't air anymore; it feels like Mercury, filling up his lungs and dragging him down.

"Remember that time in third grade when you convinced the teacher to let you sit next to me?"

Stiles strains to here more, but the memory seems so far away.

"You finished all your assignments in an hour, slammed the papers on her desk and said, 'Mrs. Kolton, I think that my work should be rewarded.' And then proceeded to sit your smug little ass in the chair next to mine? That was the first time I ever realized what a complete dork you were."

Stiles' mouth twitches. "You… you… you didn't even talk… to me."

"How could I? You were so weird."

"…not much has… changed." Stiles chokes out, but breathing's coming a little easier. His room doesn't seem quite as dark.

"No." The person chuckles. "But then again, a lot has."

Stiles' body calms. His breathing is still a little erratic, but it's under control. He lies on his back on the ground, afraid to move.

"Thanks, Lydia."

"You're welcome, Stiles."

The two don't say anything for a moment. Before Lydia can make a move to hang up, Stiles says, "Do you think you could just stay on the line? Please? You don't even have to talk. Just stay on the line."

"Okay."

Stiles listens to her breathing get lower and further apart. He listens to Lydia Martin fall asleep. Oh, how he dreamed of that sound for years. Even though he wished for the live action version, live acoustic track was just fine. Fine enough for his legs to settle. Fine enough for his restlessness to ease.

Fine enough for him not to notice the droplets of blood on the carpet, staining right where his mouth was seconds before.

**XXX**

"…Stiles? Stiles? _STILES!"_

Lydia shouts and Stiles bolts upright. "Huh – what?"

He peers down at his phone. When the realization hits, he frantically puts the phone to his ear. "Lydia – hi!"

She chuckles. "It's time to get ready for school. I thought you'd appreciate the alarm."

Stiles blinks, putting his head in his knees. "Oh yeah, thanks. My dad usually wakes me up, but he must still be at the station."

Stiles keeps his head in his knees for a while. He likes to think that it's preparation. Preparation for the exhaustion to come. Preparation for the new day of trying to figure out what's real

Preparation for his loneliness.

"…how's his impeachment case going?" Lydia asks carefully.

Now Stiles wishes he could just stay in this position all day. "Not good."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too."

"I'll see you at school then?"

"Yeah, see you soon."

_Call Time: 4 hours and 32 minutes_.

Well, that'll take some explaining.

As soon as Lydia hangs up, it occurs to Stiles how big his room is. He only covers a small fraction of the space in there. It's not something one usually notices, but he does today. He takes up such little space and all he's in is a room.

Shaking his head, he tries to eliminate his thoughts from his mind. He flips through his phone, noticing several missed texts from Scott. Frowning, with the thought of 'what could possibly be wrong now?', flitting through his mind, he opens them.

_Scott: DUDE. Deaton says you never came to meet him._

_Scott: You forget?_

_Scott: Why aren't you answering your phone?_

_Scott: Everything okay? Where are you?_

_Scott: STILES. CALL ME BACK NOW._

Stiles peeks at his phone. Ten missed calls and a handful of voicemails.

But that's not what bothers him.

So Scott _did_ tell him to see Deaton. That happened. That was real. Given, of course, that this was real. He just didn't go.

No, the nightmare in the veterinary clinic wasn't real because, theoretically, he's sitting here breathing.

Theoretically.

Stiles stands up, his legs a little shaky beneath him, like he's forgotten how to stand. He needs normalcy. He needs to be who he was before the limbo.

Stiles Stilinski needs a plan.

**XXX**

When he arrives at his destination, Stiles stares at the building. Not school. No, not school. He'll have to learn about algebra and other nontranslatable facts another day.

He hops out of his Jeep at stares at the Hale house. It's so vast, especially knowing no one lives there. Even when he opens the door, he half-expects Derek to leap out of the shadows, demanding to know why he's trespassing on his house.

But Derek doesn't come.

"It's not like anyone lives here anyone," Stiles says to himself, trying to quell his fears. It doesn't work.

Tossing his backpack on the ground of the living room, Stiles pulls a few journals out. He flips through pages of them with his scratchy handwriting.

_"March 14__th__ – Classroom started doing sign language"_

_"March 17__th__ – Confined in a locker"_

_"March 1__st__ – Kira explains about demons"_

Entry after entry, dream after dream. He rips them out, spreading them across the decrepit coffee table.

Before his mind starts jumbling the letters, he has to move quickly. He doesn't know how many precious moments of sanity he has left.

Taking out a few blank sheets of paper, Stiles walks over to the wall with some tape and a pen. Writing in bold letters, he writes separately:

**REAL**

**NOT REAL.**

The clock on the wall shines _6:46_.

**A/N: How's everyone like this? I hope you' re enjoying it as much as I'm enjoying writing it! So, Stiles is now trying to utilize his talents as the planner/researcher – but only can do so every once and a while before the letters mix up. And yes, Lydia is the last person he called (or who called him) – but what was it about? And how can he be sure of what he deems as 'real' or 'not real?'**

**This is all coming up! Be ready for more Stiles and Isaac bro-ing it up (I don't know why, but I think they should be best friends), some asshat Daddy McCall, goddess divine Mama McCall, and more to come!**

**Please leave a note/review if you have a second! It makes my cold heart melt.**


	3. What Is Broken Every Time It's Spoken?

**This is just way too much fun to write, holy cow. I rewatched the 3A finale because I couldn't quite remember all that went down, but it gave me an idea that will cause almost 100% of you to hate me. I kinda hate me too… But thank you so much for all your comments! *snergles all the readers in a non creepy way***

**Are you ready for the next installment? I want you to know, this'll sorta be split up into 2 parts: Once I reach the part of the story when Stiles is a bit too far gone, it's going to switch POV to Scott and the others, so you'll all know what it's like to WATCH Stiles, as opposed to what it's like BEING Stiles.**

**Sound good?**

Chapter 3

_What Is Broken Every Time It's Spoken?_

It was one hour, twenty-two minutes, and thirty-five seconds before the letters started to change.

Stiles contemplates just going home, but figures some sort of appearance at school would probably be beneficial.

It's funny, Stiles always liked school. As much as he found it difficult to pay attention and as much as he was restless in his chair, he liked learning. He loved to read. He just didn't feel that the curriculum covering everything he wanted. So, of course, he would have to alter it to fit his own needs. But now?

Now school seemed like a never-ending nightmare. Every time he walked through those halls, he did with the smallest glimmer of hope that maybe things would go back to normal. Maybe he would walk into the school and feel safe. The walls wouldn't have blood stained under layers of paint and there wouldn't be a body count in the double digits. School could go back to being safe.

Stiles opens the doors to school and no such feeling washes over him. Instead, it's like he can feel the death radiating off the walls. The blood seeping through the paint. The bodies hidden in the shadows of the school.

All he can feel is darkness.

"Dude, where the hell have you been?"

Being accosted when he walks into school wasn't even close to being on his list of things he wanted to happen today. Stiles blinks a few time before Scott is at his side, he eyes flashing. "Hey Scott," Stiles says wearily. His head hurts more than usual. It's like all that time he spent desperately trying to focus and it drained him of any energy he had to exist in the remaining part of the day.

Scott looks like he wants to throttle him and his indifference. "Where the hell were you last night? Deaton said you never showed up and then Lydia comes to school and said she had to talk you down from a panic attack?"

He couldn't help it. Stiles felt a twinge of betrayal with Scott's words. "She… she told you that?"

"Yeah, but I had to basically force it out of her. She was freaking out when you didn't show up for first period." Scott placed a hand on his shoulder. "Stiles, are you alright? Are the dreams getting worse?"

Yes. "No, no, I just—" Stiles looked around, as if the walls would give him the lie he so desperately needed. His mind wasn't working. He always had an answer. Stiles Stilinski always had answers.

He feels so helpless. He didn't care about the sleep. Hell, he didn't care much about the reading. Stiles could find a way around it. But what he did care about was the soul-crushing notion that everything he thought he was – everything he prided himself in being – was being stripped away from him along with his sense of reality. Everything about him was melting away.

And he didn't have the sense enough to step away from the flames.

It took him a moment to realize a tear slid down his cheek and he hastily wipes it away. "I-It's nothing, Scott." Stiles says, closing his eyes. "I'm not sleeping and it's catching up with me. That's all."

"It's not." Scott states.

Stiles stares at him. Scott's voice is gentle – not pressing, like he felt like he would straight up Alpha-slam him against a wall. He looks in his eyes and for a moment, Stiles is sure.

This is real.

This is real and his best friend is speaking to him.

For some reason, he knows.

"You're going to be okay, Stiles." Scott says. "We'll figure out this whole darkness thing. We'll find something new. We'll try again."

This is real. And for moments he knows are truth, he needs to take advantage of them.

"No, Scott, I'm not." Stiles says. "You don't get it. Something happened that day and I – I don't think that there's—"

The bell rings.

Stiles looks up at the bell and it's all it took. All of his confidence and desire to explain vanishes.

He can't put this on anyone. The darkness is not a burden to place upon friends.

Scott stares, waiting for the explanation that never comes. When Stiles moves to go to class, Scott grabs his arm. "Wait, what were you going to say?"

Scott can do so much without the darkness. For the first time in weeks, Stiles feels a strong sense of calm. "Nothing. I wasn't going to say anything."

**XXX**

The class feels normal. Stiles doesn't think he's ever focused so hard on what the teacher's saying before in his life. He's even afraid to blink. Because if somehow he nods off or lets the darkness pervade his mind, he'll have to guess again.

Stiles is so sick of guessing.

The teacher even catches his eyes a few times and gives him a strange look. He must have a deranged look on his face, but he _will_ keep his eyes open. "Mr. Stilinski, are you… okay?" She asks, hesitating before moving back to the blackboard.

Stiles wishes she'd just say the words aloud instead of mixing the letters up. "No, I'm just super pumped about the laws of thermodynamics. As we all are, I'm sure."

The teacher squints. "I can't tell if you're mocking me or not."

Stiles widens his eyes. "That's a very important distinction."

"Principal's office, Mr. Stilinski."

"Wha—" Stiles exclaims, waving his arms in disbelief. "I am literally not doing anything. And yes, that is the first time I used that sentence with a clear conscious."

"Office."

Stiles groans, grabbing his textbooks as he saunters out the door. He barely makes it down one hallway until he spots a familiar face, staring intently at her locker mirror. "Hey, Lydia!" Stiles calls out, waving. She glances up at him, but quickly puts her head back down.

Obviously, the office will need to wait.

"Lydia!" Stiles calls out to her, rushing over. She turns to face her locker. "Lydia, can you tell me why you told Scott about last night? Because, to be honest, that kinda sucks. I'm really trying not to involve him in my crazy and you telling him… is everything alright?" She still hasn't looked at him. He looks at her hands, a makeup compact tight in her hand. "Lydia, you always look awesome. I don't understand why—"

Then he does. Lightly under her eye is a almost-concealed bruise. Stiles stares. "Lydia, what… how – who did this to you?" He settles on, his voice shaking.

"It's nothing."

Stiles slams his hand against a locker. "Dammit, Lydia, tell me!"

Then it hits him. There's only one person she wouldn't tell him about. There's only one person she would keep this a secret from him. Stiles' voice is low and venomous. "Did…_he_ do this to you."

Lydia finally faces him and seeing just the slightest imperfection on her face makes the blood rush from his face. "It's not a big deal, Stiles."

"Not a big deal? Not a big deal? Did you really just say that?" He exclaims. "Yeah, if you definition of 'not a big deal' means a massive deal! Like, the United States being severely in debt to China is less of a big deal than this. I'm gonna kill him." Stiles whispers to himself. "I'm going to freaking kill him."

Lydia places a hand his shoulder. It doesn't help. "Please, just leave it alone."

With that, she walks away.

"Lydia!" Stiles cries, but she doesn't turn around. "Lydia, I'm not done with this conversation!"

Lydia walks into her classroom.

Stiles has to sit down. The wrath is beating like a drum in his head, his mind pulsating with how much he wished he was a werewolf right now. He would rip his face off. Not that it would matter so much – there is a spare.

The bell rings and Stiles takes a few breaths, trying to calm himself down. It's not working. People start to bustle in the hallway, but Stiles blinks a few times, only looking for one person. He only needs one.

He sees him.

Stiles rises to his feet, watching Aiden put a few books away in his locker. Lydia may as well have not sad anything because there is nothing on this earth that would prevent him from leaving it alone.

Stiles marches over there, the thought that Aiden was a werewolf clear from his head. Grabbing a fistful of his collar, Stiles slams him against a locker. "I'm gonna fucking _kill _you!" He shouts.

Aiden's too surprised to make a move, but everyone in the hallway stops talking. Before Aiden can even ask what the hell is going on, Stiles takes a swing at him. Then he proceeds to resist the urge to swear. Holy shit, his face is hard. But he doesn't care. He takes another swing. And another.

"Stiles, what are you doing?" Someone shouts.

Aiden takes Stiles' hesitation to shove him off. Stiles jaw clenches as he move menacingly closer, every part of his body feeling like it was on fire. He cocks his arm back, but someone grabs him. "Stiles, stop it, what are you doing!"

Stiles glances to see Lydia grabbing his arm. "What do you think I'm doing, I'm—"

He stops.

Her face is perfect.

Stiles blinks. Every time he does, he sees exactly the same. No bruise. No injury. Just Lydia. Just Lydia staring at him, terrified. "Wha—" he breathes, his fist dropping.

Then someone else's strikes him in the face.

Stiles stumbles backwards, almost dropping to his knees. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Aiden cries, grabbing Stiles by his shirt cuffs. He throws another punch, except this time there's considerable force behind it and it leaves him reeling. Slamming him against the opposite lockers, Aiden knees him in the chest, causing Stiles to choke.

Aiden brings his arm back and Stiles flinches, but it never comes.

"What is going on out here?" A teacher shouts as Ethan drags Aiden away from Stiles.

Stiles collapses to the ground, rubbing his face. His fingers come back covered with blood.

"Stiles, what were you thinking?" Lydia cries, kneeling next to him.

He takes one last look at her, hoping the adrenaline made him miss the bruise. Made him miss her injury.

There was nothing.

**XXX**

"Stop squirming, Stiles. You're just as bad as you were when you were little." Ms. McCall dabs Stiles' face, blood staining several gauge wraps behind her.

"Sorry," Stiles says, his eyes darting around. "I'm not a big fan of hospitals."

"I know, sweetie. I know."

Stiles swings his legs on the examination table like he did when he was little. It made him smile a little. Everything was easier then. Well, maybe not. Watching his mother die isn't something he could ever relive. But classifying pain is like blowing bubbles and expecting them to stay with you: pointless and unsuccessful.

"Stiles, good Lord, what were you thinking?" Ms. McCall breaths as she presses her fingers against his rib cage. He squeaks when she does so, his chest heaving. "You've got some pretty nasty bruises. No lacrosse for you for a week or so."

Stiles shrugs. Lacrosse isn't exactly high on his priorities list these days.

Ms. McCall moves toward the door, but instead of leaving with his test results, she closes it. "Alright," she says when she returns. "You're going to start explaining and you're going to do it now."

Stiles bites his lip. It's just the two of them. He's already told someone once, but that wasn't real.

"If I tell you, will you keep it a secret?" Stiles says in a soft voice.

Ms. McCall's eyes light up, surprised, as if she didn't expect him to agree. "Of course."

"No, I mean it. You can't tell my dad – or even Scott."

Her eyebrows narrow. "Okay, Stiles, you're scaring me."

"Promise."

She sighs. "I promise."

Stiles licks his lips, the nervousness making his skin crawl. "I don't know how much Scott told about the darkness and the doors, but we tried to close the doors opened to our mind a few days ago."

She nods. "Yes and he said it didn't work. Nothing changed."

Stiles is having a hard time looking in her eyes. He has the key to her house on his keychain for God's sake. "I, uh, lied. That day about what happened. I lied to everyone." He hangs his head. "I got to the doors. I closed Scott's and Allison's. But…" Stiles winces. "Something went wrong and mine opened further. It's wide open now.

"I'm losing my mind, Ms. McCall. I can barely determine what's a dream or not. Like this right now? I'm not even sure. Maybe I'll wake up in a few minutes or an hour. Who knows?"

Ms. McCall's hand is over her mouth, tears dotting her eyes. "Stiles—"

"And I'm getting more scared. At school today? There wasn't even a moment."

She grips his arm. "What do you mean?"

Stiles' feels the darkness coming over him like a wet blanket. His skin feels cold, like he's back in the ice tub, ready to drown. Maybe he is. "I have a moment of realization. Either when I wake up or right when I'm about to, I know it's a dream. I know what happened wasn't real. But this time," he says, gritting his teeth. "This time there was no moment. What was happening was real, and then it wasn't, and then it was again. I thought he hurt her, Ms. McCall. I had a conversation with Lydia minutes before I saw him and he hurt her. But then? Then when she came over, she wasn't hurt.

"So somehow, I slipped between reality and my mind without realizing it. I didn't even notice it happening." Stiles' hands start to shake, so Ms. McCall takes them in hers. She motions for him to calm his breathing. He didn't even realize it was erratic. "The line is blurring.

"Ms. McCall, I'm going to die."

A few tears slide down her cheeks. "No, honey," she says, wrapping her arms around him and bringing his head into her chest. "You're not going to die. We'll figure something out."

Stiles stays there for a while, the warmth welcome. That's the thing. Ms. McCall is warm. She's so warm. He clutches her back, trying to control his tears. Unsuccessfully, but trying.

"I feel so alone." He says.

"You're not, sweetie. No matter what your mind tells you, you are not alone."

Stiles brings his head to her shoulder so he could properly hug her, but is startled when he sees someone staring at them in the window.

He stiffens.

Ms. McCall doesn't seem to notice, but his chest starts to heave. He's shaking.

Those eyes. Those eyes staring at him through the hospital window. The person places a hand on the window, her hazel eyes striking through him. She's mouthing something to him, but Stiles can't make it out. He can't move. He can't think.

"Mom?"

**XXX**

He wakes up screaming.

Stiles only screams for so long before he feels someone tackle him. His entire body aches when they do so and so his yelling strangles into a pitiful howl, the person locking their grip so he can't do anything.

That's when he realizes he's not at home.

Stiles flails frantically, trying to get out of the stranger's grip, but has to give up after a while. "Shit, you're much stronger than I ever would've given you credit for." The stranger breathes when Stiles lands an elbow in his side. "No wonder Aiden was pissed."

"Who are you?" Stiles bellows, pushing against the arms. "Let me go!"

"Dude, Stiles, it's me. Isaac."

"Isaac?" Stiles repeats. The surprise is enough to calm him down. As he turns his head behind him, Scott bursts through the door. "Scott?"

Scott peers at his friend, his eyes wide. "God, Stiles. You didn't tell me they were getting this bad."

Isaac loosens his grip on Stiles, but doesn't move away. "What am I doing here?" Stiles asks, panting. He scoots a little away from Isaac, clutching his chest. There's the feeling again.

He's underwater.

Isaac looks at him pitifully. Stiles hates that. "You came over to spend the night because your dad's working nights again because of the impeachment? He heard about your panic attack last night and asked if you could stay here."

Even as Isaac's explaining, Stiles tries to remember. He tries to put that memory into place, but it's not there. He can't even find a whisper of it. But sure enough, there's his backpack. And he was in a sleeping bag. Well, theoretically. The sleeping bag is unzipped and kicked under Isaac's bed.

Footsteps grow louder and before Stiles can hide, Ms. McCall is in the room. "Everything alright?"

Scott nods at his mom, his eyes weary. "We got it under control."

"I-I'm sorry," Stiles mutters, grabbing his head. "I shouldn't make you guys deal with this. It's bad enough my dad has to—"

"Hush, Stiles." Ms. McCall kneels by him, lifting up his head so she can take it in her hands. "We are here for you."

Chills run down his spine. "Did we have a conversation earlier today?" Stiles asks after a moment. "In the hospital?"

Ms. McCall frowns. "Sweetie, you didn't go to the hospital." She runs her hands down his face to his chin. "But maybe you should, just to make sure everything is okay. I mean, it's hard to explain to a principal how an ordinary case of teenage fight could be problematic, especially when one's a werewolf."

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. His mom's eyes haunt him when he does so, so he squeezes tighter to try and hide them. She was there. His mom was standing right there.

If this was a contest, he wouldn't even be competition, let alone winning.

_Not real._

**A/N: …yes. I brought Claudia Stilinski in it. *hides from everyone* And yes, prepare for more.**

**I know the show is adding more supernatural elements, but I'm going for a more metaphorical darkness: like the darkness that already resides in his mind is manifesting itself. So everything – his mother, father, uselessness, etc. is going to play a factor here.**

**I really love reading your guys' thoughts! So if you have a little bit, please do leave a note! It makes my heart oh so happy. And makes my pen quite motivated… haha!**


	4. What Demands an Answer, But Asks No Q?

**You guys are so awesome! I usually am not this prolific, but you make me want to write more! (Not to mention, this is super fun and I'm pretty stoked where it's heading) I have to say, a review made me laugh so hard, I'm putting another chapter up today. So, this may not be 4 new chapters in an evening, but you definitely made me want to write another!**

Chapter 4

_What Demands an Answer, but Asks No Questions?_

Stiles' leg pops up and down. He tries running his hands down his thigh to calm himself down, but it doesn't work. They still shake.

He's in the hospital waiting room alone.

As much as he protested, he couldn't convince his father that he didn't need a CAT scan. Everyone continued to ask him why he was so sure, why the sudden increase of panic attacks? Why can't he discern what is real or not? And why, oh why, are Scott and Allison doing just fun and he, Stiles, can't seem to hold himself together to save his life?

Literally.

He couldn't tell them. When they all stared at him as he tried to voice his opinion, when he tried to explain exactly _why_ he wasn't able to do anything, no words came. He couldn't tell them again. He couldn't tell them for a third time and then it not be real. No, he was in this alone.

That's fine, though.

That's at least what he tells himself.

But he thinks about it and realizes it'll be true. Everyone, without him, will be just fine. Scott will have his pack and Alpha Status, Allison will have Scott and Isaac, Isaac will have the McCalls, Lydia will have Allison and Aiden, and his dad… Well, his dad will have everyone around him. And most likely, he will be better off for it. He won't have Stiles, a hyperactive basket case with a severe case of ADHD, ruining his life.

Maybe, the world would be better without him anyway.

The thought slithers in the back of his mind and he finds himself shrinking in his seat. The back of his neck grows cold and he starts to shake. Sweat breaks out on his forehead and he tries to settle his breathing. _They would be better without me_. The thought echoes over and over in his head and his sight goes out of focus. Are they tears? Or is it something else?

Someone sits next to him and Stiles almost leaps out of his skin. He recoils at the stranger, gripping the sides of the hospital chair as if he's afraid the person will attack him. But then, he realizes it's just a kid.

Stiles isn't sure the kid is even aware he sat next to someone unhinged. The boy couldn't have been more than twelve. He hangs his head in his hands, a quiet whimpering smother through his fingers. Stiles looks around, waiting for someone to claim the child, tell him whatever is bothering his that it's alright, but no one comes. Stiles looks at him and remembers all the moments he sat in the hospital by himself, surrounded by wrappers of vending machine candy, waiting for a nurse to bring him water and his father to arrive.

"Hey there," Stiles says, putting a hand on the kid's back. "Everything alright?"

The boy looks up at Stiles, his eyes brimming with tears. He doesn't answer at first, but then again, he doesn't turn away either. He just stares at Stiles with his tear-filled gaze, making Stiles' breath catch. He's a scrawny kid with knobby elbows and big brown eyes. "She's going to die." The kid says.

Stiles can't help but look around, hoping someone would come over and see that this is a crisis, but he can't get the boy's words out of his head. _She's going to die_. "Who?" Stiles asks, although a part of him doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to know at all.

"My mom."

Stiles wants to recoil away from him. This feels too familiar, too scary, and too real. His hands start to tremble. But the kid doesn't stop. He doesn't stop talking, even though Stiles is leaning away from him. "I heard the nurses say that she's going to die and they tried calling my dad, but he won't pick up."

Stiles can't breathe. Memories of this flash in his mind. His small hands gripping the hospital phone. His desperate attempt to call his father, but no answer from the other line. His mother's choking gasps for air as nurses bustled around him, forgetting he was standing there, pressed against the corner, trying not to watch. _Redial. Redial, redial, redial._

"My dad isn't going to get here in time." The boy says vacantly, his brown eyes hollowing like he lost his soul, like there's nothing left inside his body. Like he's a shell. "I have to watch my mother die."

Stiles lets go of his shoulder as if the child burned him. Leaping from his seat, he calls out, "Is there anyone here who can help this kid?" He calls out. "Anyone who can get his father on the phone? Can anyone help him?"

The hospital lights flicker.

Stiles peers around, his breath shortening.

There's no one else here.

The hospital, which was bustling only moments ago, is empty. The lights dim to a faint blue, washing the entire area in the melancholy hue of a graveyard. "H-Hello?" Stiles calls out, his hands trembling. "I-Is there anyone else here?"

He peers back down and the boy is gone.

Stiles grabs his head. "This is a dream." He says to himself, his body shaking with tremors. "This is a dream, Stiles. Wake up."

Someone grabs his shoulder and he yells and jerks away, but they don't let go. One of the nurses he's seen throughout his entire life is standing at his side. "Ms. Paige?" He asks, staring at her vice-like grip. "W-What are you doing?"

"Come with me, Stiles."

Stiles doesn't want to, but find himself being led by the woman who was there throughout the treatments. Throughout the overnight visits at the hospital. The woman who made sure he had a blanket when he rested his head on the cot as his mother's monitors beeped on.

She was the nurse who called time of death.

Stiles recognizes the hallways. He walked them so many times, the nurses barely noticed he was there. Of course the small, Stilinski boy was wandering the halls. He was always here. His father wasn't, but the little boy was. The Stilinski boy lived in these walls.

Except this route is too familiar. It's the hallways he walked every day. "Let me go," Stiles struggles, trying to wrench his arm from her grip. "Let me go, please."

He sees the door.

"No," Stiles is panicking more now, trying to whirl around and run, but another set of hands grab his other arm. Another pair pushes his back. "No!" He shouts, trembling. "No, don't do this! Make it stop!"

There are too many people and there's only one of him. They shove Stiles to his mother's old room, but he puts his hands out to catch the door frame. He's frozen in the middle, his eyes squeezed shut. He doesn't want to see. "Stop! Please!" He cries, his arms burning as the people press against his back. Every part of his body feels like it's on fire. "Please, please don't make me watch again! Please!"

Behind him, he hears the collected voice of Nurse Paige.

"Time of death, 6:46 P.M."

**XXX**

_"PLEASE!"_ Stiles begs, reaching his hands out wildly. "Please don't make me do this!"

Except this time, when he puts his hands out, his fists his something solid. Stiles opens his eyes and sees white.

He's in a tube.

"What?" He breathes, placing his palms on the sleek surface above him. It surrounds every part of him and tries to move his head around, but there it is. The white walls. "Where am I?" He gasps, his hands dragging alongside of the tube. "Let me out!"

_"Stiles!"_

A voice shouts from above him and his eyes widen. "No!" Stiles slams his hand against the walls around him and the entire thing shudders. "Wake up, Stiles! Wake up! This is just a dream!"

_"Stiles, sweetie, you need to calm down. I'm right here."_

Stiles continues to slams his hands against the white walls, his bellowing swirling around him like poison. It echoes again and again, until he's trapped within the tube of his own screams.

"Wake up, Stiles!" He shouts, using both hands to push against the white walls. "This is just a dream. _Wake up!"_

He moves to slams his hand against the wall again, but his body moves. "No! Please!" He begs, shielding his face. "Please stop!"

Lights flash before his eyes and he's no longer surrounded by the walls of white. "Stiles!" Someone shouts from the corner of the room, but before he could register who it is, he leaps to his feet and scrambles to the far wall. "Stiles, honey, it's okay. You're okay."

The whole world is blurring. He can't make out who's talking to him or where he is. "Please, don't." He cries pitifully, putting his hands up by his face. "Please don't make me watch it again. Please, I'm begging you. Don't make me watch it again."

"Stiles, you need to focus on your breathing. You're going to go into cardiac arrest if you don't listen to me."

All he can see is her nurses scrubs. "Stay away from me!" He shouts, recoiling. "Don't make me see it again. Please don't make me see it again!"

"Stiles, it's me, sweetie. Calm down. We were just trying to get a CAT scan, that's all. You don't have to get back in there if you don't want to. I promise." The voice sounds so familiar, but all he can see are the scrubs. "Just please, focus on me. Focus on me, Stiles."

Stiles can't. He clutches his chest and everything's going dark. Sweat rolls down his face as he tries to grab something to stabilize himself, but there's nothing around. His hands desperately flail for something to hold onto, but there's nothing and he falls.

His shoulders slam against the ground and he cries out, his chest exploding with a pain he hasn't experienced in a while. "Melissa, we need to sedate him or his heart's going to stop."

Stiles lifts his head, but only sees shapes.

"I can bring him back, I've done it before. I've done it so many times before." The person says, but her voice is so far away.

"It's too late for that now."

**XXX**

Stiles isn't sure, but he doesn't think he's been more scared in his life.

They sedated him.

It was all real. The CAT scan, the panic attack, Ms. McCall trying to calm him down as he cowered in the corner. It was real.

Except… the sedative. The sedative is the most terrifying thing they could've done. Sure, he stopped panicking and sure, he no longer was walking around like he was stepping on ice, but it was so much worse.

His mind was foggy. The edges of the world were blurred. He could feel something cold and ruthless clutching his chest, but he can't fight it. He can't even function properly. He sees his house come into view and something grabs a hold of him. Something in the deep confines of his mind. A notion that he can't shake because he's not his full self. He's only his sedated self.

_They would be better off without you_.

He doesn't have the mental congruence to fight it. He can't. His entire mind is relaxed and empty, leaving so much more room for the darkness to seep in. He can feel it happening.

It settles like a flood, small at first, and then filling up his mind until he can't bring himself to think anything else. _They would be better off without you_. He wants to yell, he wants to scream, but he can't. The drugs are coursing through his system, making his arms and legs feel like unwelcome burdens.

"Melissa, what is going on with him?" Stiles hears his father ask as he makes his way through the halls of his house. "What am I going to do?"

"I-I don't know," Ms. McCall answers. She pulls a prescription out of her purse, handing it to the sheriff. "These are oral versions of the sedative we gave him, in case anything else happens like that again."

"It's so much worse than it was. These past few days, it's gotten so much worse. Are you sure you three didn't do anything to make the darkness more permanent?"

Stiles can hear Scott's voice distantly. "I don't think so. I actually feel fine. Good, even. Better than I have in weeks. Allison says she's the same - she stopped seeing her aunt. Everything is fine for us. I-I don't know why Stiles is—"

"That's because I closed your doors." Stiles says, his words hollow. He's making his way through the house like a passing ghost, his feet dragging. He's not quite sure how he's still standing upright. The voices settle. "I closed your doors that day. You get to be normal. I don't get to be normal."

Stiles turns his head. "I get to die."

"Stiles—" Someone says, but he doesn't stay.

He continues to walk through the house. His mind is screaming at him to stop, maybe ask someone to knock him out, but his feet lead him further. His skin feels like he's just emerged from the pools of ice; cold, harsh, and painful. The darkness is wrapping its way around his mind.

It's like he's back in the tub, except this time, he can't break free of the surface. He's drowning, desperately pushing against the surface of the water, but he can't escape. He can't break free. His body is cold and dark.

Stiles makes his way to the kitchen, leading himself to the drawer by the refrigerator. His mind is full. His thoughts are dark.

His existence is useless.

"Stiles, what are you doing?" His dad asks when the pack of them burst into the kitchen.

Stiles reaches for something, a humorless smirk on his face when his fingers wrap around the cold metal. He pulls it out of the drawer, releasing the safety.

"Oh my God," Someone breathes.

Stiles looks at the gun, his mind blank. "I'm doing you all a favor." He says hollowly, placing the barrel at his temple. "You all will be better. You will be better when it's done."

"Stiles, listen to me," Mr. Stilinsky says, taking a step forward. He puts his hand out, but Stiles presses it harder against the side of his head, so he recoils. "Listen to me, you need to put that down."

Stiles takes a step back. "No," he whispers. "I'm doing this to help you, Dad." He hears a sob. They're all blurring. _They would be better off without you_. "I know what you think. I know that when she was dying, you were panicking. You didn't know how you were going to deal with a stupid kid all on your own. A hyperactive little bastard that is hell bent on ruining your life."

"Stiles—"

"You think I killed her." Stiles says, drawing still. "Maybe I did. But that's not all, isn't it. It's that I'm killing you. I'm killing you and I need to stop. I'm killing everyone. I need to stop killing everyone."

"Stiles, listen, this isn't you." Scott says, moving closer, but Stiles backs closer to the back door. "This is just the darkness. This isn't you."

A tear falls down Stiles cheek. "You will be a better Alpha." He says. "I'm just holding you back. I'm holding everyone back."

_"They would be better off without you."_

It takes Stiles a moment to realize he said it out loud. His finger is caressing the trigger. For a brief, shining moment, Stiles breaks free of the darkness and the sedative and wants to throw the gun down, but his arms won't let him. It comes back as quickly as it came.

"You know what you do to an animal that is too far gone?" He says. "An animal that is so lost, nothing can improve its quality of life?"

Stiles cocks the gun back.

"You put it down."

There's an explosion.

Someone tackles him.

Stiles is brought to the ground, the sound of the gunshot ringing in his ears. His entire body freezes as the darkness circling his mind retreats, causing his limbs to tremble. "Wha—" He chokes, clutching his chest. He touches his head and his fingers are covered in blood. "Holy shit, I shot myself."

"Barely," Isaac groans as he pushes Stiles off of him, nudging the gun away from Stiles' reach. Not that he wanted to be anywhere near it. "Good thing you've never been exceptional at follow through.

Mr. Stilinski sprints over, grabbing Stiles' face in his hands. "What were you thinking!" He shouts, angry tears welling in his eyes. "Why would you do that? Why would you ever do that? What makes you think you can do that to me?"

All Stiles can do is stare at the figures surrounding him.

There's a pang in his chest. He has a notion. He has a notion that this is it. This may be the last time. One of his last moments of clarity.

He feels this way because everything is a little brighter. He can _feel_ the emotions rolling over him like a tidal wave. He can see Ms. McCall's tears and hear Scott's palpitating heart. He can hear Isaac's labored breathing as he scrambles to his feet after shocking him into calamity for the second time in two days.

But all Stiles can do is manage out one sentence.

"Please don't ever sedate me again."

**XXX**

A car rolls up to the Hale house. The figure slams the door to his car, cursing when he stares at the house. He can't believe he's back so soon.

Derek opens the door to his house and sighs when everything is the same. Not that he expected anything to be different, but he _felt_ different. The house should reflect that. It should reflect Cora's absence.

He places his bag in the hallway, noting that he'll put it together later. He just wants to sit down.

Derek freezes when he gets in the living room. Papers are scatter everywhere; taped to the walls, shuffled in piles, and scattered over the couch. On the walls there are three sections: Real, Not Real, and Not Sure.

Some of the words don't even make sense. He's not even sure if it's a real language. They're just a jumble of letters.

He may not know what some of it says, but he recognizes the handwriting instantly and gives a low snarl. Of course there would be a trespasser when he was gone.

"I'm going to fucking kill him."

**A/N: What do you think?! Side note, I know I'm terrible, but HOW HORRIFYING WOULD IT BE TO WAKE UP IN A CAT MACHINE!? It's so tight and closed, with lights everywhere? NO THANK YOU.**

**If you have time to leave a note, I would so much appreciate it! We're ALMOST at the POV switch, thanks to a certain McCall father…**


	5. What Can You Catch, But Not Throw?

**Oh my gosh, you guys! I want to snergle you all! You're making my heart feel warm.**

**I was actually a little nervous going into Monday, because I have this weird tendency that when I start a fic, and then the canon catches up, I find it difficult to continue with that train of thought. But not this time! AND, I got more StilesxIssac interaction! Seriously – I want them to be BFFs so bad, just snarking each other all day. **

**Here we go!**

Chapter 5

_What Can You Catch, But Not Throw?_

"Should we be putting him on suicide watch?"

"Technically he didn't mean to try to kill himself."

"I don't care about stupid technicalities! My son put _my_ gun to his head and threatened to pull the trigger. Hell – he _did_ pull the trigger! He's lucky Isaac had sense enough to run to the back door! My son almost died today due to this supernatural bullshit! I need a plan! I need a plan right now!"

No one responds to that, only sending Mr. Stilinski into a flurry of more swearing and panic.

Stiles listens from behind the door of his room. He's lying on his bed, blinking tears away. This is worse than the darkness. Listening to his father lose it because he's losing his mind? He'd rather be back in the hospital, being dragged back to his mother's room. At least then he could tell himself it wasn't real. There's no convincing him of that here.

"Mr. Stilinski, I think we need to talk to Deaton." Scott's calm voice said, quelling the sheriff's shouts, which had been progressively getting more frantic. "Deaton was the one who came up with the original plan, maybe he could help Stiles. Maybe he could…" Scott doesn't finish the sentence, but Stiles thinks he hears a catch in his throat.

"It's our fault."

"Allison," Isaac starts, but she speaks again.

"Stop, Isaac. We're all thinking it but I'm the only one who has the balls to say it. It's our fault. We couldn't even get to our doors, Scott. Not only did we not get to our doors, but we couldn't even tell he was lying about his. Because we have been feeling better." Allison takes a breath and doesn't start for a moment. A part of Stiles wishes he couldn't hear this conversation, but then again, it's of small comfort to him. They're all out there fighting for him, even if he can't fight for himself much longer. "Because, I don't know about you Scott, but I noticed it days ago. No more nightmares, no more fear. Just a tiny feeling of darkness. I didn't think to say anything. I was just so happy that nightmare was over, I didn't even pay attention."

"It doesn't mean it's your fault, Allison." Ms. McCall cuts in. "Just because it happened to all three of you does not link you to each other's pain. Stiles made a decision. A valiant, selfless, and obviously very reckless and haphazard decision—"

Stiles can't help but grin at that.

"—but he made a decision nonetheless. Placing blame isn't going to help anyone, especially the boy sleeping in that room. What we need is a plan. You kids always have a plan, right? That's how miraculously all of you are still alive, even though you didn't choose to tell your parents about the super important supernatural bits?"

"Really, mom? Are you still focused on that?"

"I'm still very upset you didn't tell me straight away."

"What was I supposed to do? 'Hey Mom, I was bitten by a werewolf and now I'm one too! Let's open up a dialogue!'"

"That tone is not helping, mister."

"Can we get back on topic, please?" Lydia's desperate plea breaks the argument. Stiles couldn't help but be disappointed when the petty argument quiets. It felt nice.

It felt… normal.

"Yes, I want to know what we're going to do to help my son!" Mr. Stilinski roars. "My kid in there, who just had a gun to his head. I want an answer and I want one now!"

"…we can't." Isaac says softly.

"Why the hell not?" Mr. Stilinski bellows.

"Stiles is always the one who comes up with the plan." Lydia answers. "He's the one who figures things out. It's always been that way. He figures it out."

Stiles can feel the tension from behind his door. Actually, he's curious. He wants a plan. He wants a plan to relieve his weak heart. He wants a plan to eradicate the darkness. He _needs_ a plan to eradicate the darkness from his mind. Because right now, the darkness is telling him that there is a pair of scissors in his desk drawer.

The darkness is telling him to use them.

Stiles clutches the side of his bed, giving his fingers something to do. "Don't let them in," he whispers to himself, ignoring as his fingers tremble. He tells himself it'll stop soon. The darkness tells him he can make it stop forever. "Goddamn bastard sons of bitches." He whispers to no one in particular, but grins. He may not be able to do anything about his darkness, but he'll paralyze it with his rhetoric.

Theoretically.

"I'm sorry, kids, but we need to figure it out." Ms. McCall states. "We have to accept the fact that Stiles is not the most stable source right now. And even if he could come up with a plan, we wouldn't be able to trust it."

Stiles winces. Maybe he should tell everyone that he can hear them, because ouch.

"Don't give me that look, Scott," Ms. McCall snaps. "Whatever you kids did, whatever 'darkness' you say is taking him? It just convinced him that he should die. It convinced him that everyone in his life would be better off without him. Is that something you trust? Do you trust what comes out of his mouth right now? What reality he believes to be true?"

Stiles raises his eyes to the ceiling, ignoring the tears rolling down as he does so.

"My son was convinced I didn't want him around," Mr. Stilinski seethes. "I sure as hell do not trust whatever's got a hold on him."

Nobody says anything for a while. A few people shift and he hears his father cough.

"You're right," Ms. McCall states. "I'm gonna drive Lydia and Allison home. You let me know if anything else happens, okay? I don't care if it's just Stiles waking up from a nightmare – you call me."

"Of course, Melissa." Mr. Stilinski says quietly. "Of course."

Ms. McCall sighs. "That boy, right? I always knew he'd be trouble." That gets a weak laugh from the sheriff. "I always knew he'd be great, too. Obviously, I'm never wrong."

Mr. Stilinski coughs. "You have first rate investigative instincts, unlike your ex-husband. I'm just gonna check on him. Make sure… well, I know he's sleeping, but…"

"It's fine. Check on him. Call me if you need anything."

Stiles feels like he should close his eyes, but he's too afraid to. He should be able to black out the darkness to make sure his father isn't burdened with the fact that he's been listening. But he can't. His eyes are open.

He's too afraid.

"I should've known," Mr. Stilinski chuckles, closing the door behind him. "When are you ever sleeping when you should be?"

Stiles sits up. "I can't go to sleep, Dad."

"Why is that?"

"I'm afraid."

Mr. Stilinski groans as he sits down on the bed. "I guess that makes sense. But, you know, I'm here. Always here. You can count on me."

Stiles hangs his head. "I know. I know that I can trust you and you have my back." Stiles looks at his father, the lines in his face and the weariness that comes from being related to him. He wishes he can take it back, but that's the problem. There's only two Stilinksi's left.

Soon there will only be one.

"I want to be here, Dad." Stiles insists, ignoring the urge in the back of his mind to grab the pair of scissors in the drawers of his desk. "I need you to know that. I need you to know that I'd never – I would never—"

"I know." Mr. Stilinski says. "If anything, for me." He shrugs. "You look out for me, I look out for you. If you died, I'd have to rely on myself. And I know that you do not trust me enough to take care of myself."

"That's the truth," Stiles snorts. The darkness is getting too strong. Thoughts of despair and despondency were fighting with him again and he has to blink a few times to remain here. "You guys will be fine, right?"

Mr. Stilinski frowns. "What do you mean?"

"If I die?" Stiles says. "I know it'll be sad, at least I hope it'll be sad, but you'll be fine. People die every day. They die because they've got in a car crash or they got mauled by a bear. They die for no reason at all sometimes. People die. Life goes on."

Mr. Stilinski huffs. "You're right Stiles, people die. And life will go on, that's probably true too. But fine? Do you think that everyone will be fine if you die? Everyone will just go on like it's nothing if you die? If you believe that, if you truly believe this to be the case, you clearly have not been paying attention. And that's not the son I raised."

Stiles hangs his head. "I need to know, though. I need to know that you'll be okay?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you!" Stiles exclaims. "Scott has his Mom and Allison and Isaac, Lydia has Allison, everyone has someone! Everyone _needs_ someone! You need to tell me you'll be okay. I need to know that you'll be okay."

Mr. Stilinski looks to his hands, his posture making him seem much older than he really is. "Of course I will not be okay, Stiles. I will have lost everyone I loved."

Stiles can't face his dad for a few minutes. When he does, his heart palpitates. He groans, slapping himself in the head. "It's getting worse. I mean, I'm barely paying attention anymore. This is getting good."

Mr. Stilinski looks confused. "What are you talking about?"

Stiles takes his father's wrist and points to his hand. "One, two, three, four, five, and… six."

Six fingers.

"This isn't real." He states.

"No," Mr. Stilinski shakes his head. "But wouldn't it be great if it was?"

**XXX**

"Stop! Stop it, Stiles! Stop, please! Please stop!"

Stiles blinks, leaping back. Something clatters to the ground.

Someone's choking. The world is still tilting, but he notices someone pinned to the ground by him. Stiles releases the vice-grip he had on the person's collar. "Dude, you are really starting to piss me off." Isaac groans, holding his hand to his neck. Blood seeps through his fingers when he does so.

"What the hell!" Stiles exclaims, jumping away from him and rushing to the corner. He barely notes the blade on the floor next to Isaac. He looks at his hands and sees blood on them, dripping down his wrists.

"What happened?"

People burst into the living room. Stiles clutches his hands close to his chest, his chest shuddering. He coughs a few time, unable to slow his heart rate down.

"Isaac, are you okay?" Lydia asks shakily, glancing over at Stiles with fear in her eyes.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm already healed." Isaac groans, casting a sour look at Stiles. "All he had was a butter knife. It's not like I was up against Allison or something."

Even after Stiles almost murders him, Isaac still manages to hurl an insult his way. "Stiles, what were you thinking?" Mr. Stilinski cries, but Stiles winces when he takes a step closer.

"Stop!" Stiles cries, wiping the drops of Isaac's blood on his shirt. "Please, just stay back. Give me a minute."

No one moves. Stiles continues to cough, feeling like his chest is being shredded as he does so. He leans his head against the wall, listening to his heart slow.

"Someone tell me what's going on," Ms. McCall says slowly, careful not to make any motion toward Stiles.

"I couldn't get Stiles to respond to me," Isaac says. "Then he came after me. Lydia was trying to calm him down, but it was like he wasn't there." Isaac mentions wistfully. "Actually, it kinda reminded me of Allison when she was hallucinating about Kate."

Scott gapes. "How did he hold you _down_? I mean it's Stiles!"

That gets Stiles to snap out of it. "Dude!" He exclaims.

"Sorry, buddy, but he's a werewolf."

Isaac shakes his head. "He wasn't normal Stiles. He felt like a werewolf. He felt like…" Isaac trails off, refusing to make eye contact with everyone.

"…Scott." Stiles finishes. He groans, knocking his head against the back wall. "Oh shit."

"What?" Scott exclaims. "What's going on?"

Lydia takes a cautious step toward Stiles, who flinches. She doesn't stop though. "It means that he has the darkness of all three of you." Lydia finishes. "The violent nightmares of Allison, the uncontrolled power of you, and the fact that he's…"

"…losing his damn mind." Stiles finishes. He closes his eyes, a part of him wishing this was a dream. He actually attacked someone. "I'm sorry, Isaac. I know I condone death almost every day, but, man…"

"It's alright."

"No, it's not." Stiles groans, slamming his head against the wall a few more time. "It's so not."

When he opens his eyes, Lydia's right before his face. Stiles wants to push her away, but there's something that stops him. Something that makes his chest feel a little lighter. And who is he to push away anything that feels light?

Lydia strokes her fingers against his hand, peering at the blood staining the tips. "Um, show your concern over here," Isaac states, waving his hand. "I'm the one he actually stabbed."

"Shut up, you healed." Lydia states.

"It's fine." Stiles says, taking his hands back. "Isaac's right, it's all his blood."

Lydia brings her fingers up to his lips, brushing them gently against the corner. Stiles has to do everything in his power to remain still and normal – two things he's never been good at being. Lydia peers at her fingers. Blood stains them, a drop rolling down.

"Not all of it."

**XXX**

"We need to figure something out. I mean, Allison never actually shot anyone, she just pretended to shoot people."

"Technically, she would've killed Lydia if I hadn't been there."

"Isaac, please!"

"I'm just saying."

"But I'm alive and well and that's an important distinction."

"And I'm alive and well, but it doesn't erase the face that Stiles tried to slit my throat last night after putting a gun to his own head."

"Isaac!"

"Do none of you ever want to hear the big picture? Sure, it's all butterflies and rainbows until someone gets their head blown off by an unstable adolescent with an impenetrable darkness haunting his thoughts that has, oh, triple in intensity in the past five days!"

"Seriously!" Stiles shouts, whirling around. "I am right here! You guys need to stop talking about my imminent death, thinking I won't here you but spoiler alert! I have ears. And just because sometimes I have trouble discerning what's real or not, doesn't impede my ability to hear."

Isaac tilts his head. "I think you've passed the 'sometimes having trouble' bar a long time ago."

"I swear to God, I will take that scarf and choke you to death with it."

"Stiles, enough with the scarf," Scott sighs, shaking his head. "We're just worried."

"Oh, you're worried?" Stiles asks, nodding his head. "That's funny, I've never heard of this emotion of worried. I don't know what it feels like. Would someone mind explaining it to me?"

"Stiles—"

"You're worried? I'm losing my damn mind and somehow I only seem to be sane for the horrible parts where, I don't know, have my hands covered in Isaac's blood or I get to see how crushed my dad will be if I shot myself in the skull." Stiles says with a shrug. "Because you're worried? I'm terrified. And it's not helping that all my friends are treating me like I should be institutionalized. So if you're going to say something, say it to my face. There's a good chance I may not be mentally coherent for it, but say it to my face. Don't whisper behind my back."

"_Okay_ Stiles," Lydia says. "You've proven your point. Calm down."

That's when Stiles realizes he's not breathing.

He's not moving either. He's weirdly stoic, not in a perpetual fit of motion like usual.

Like a dead body.

He glances down at his shadow and it grows. It grows like it's going to overtake the entire school, enveloping the shadows of everyone around him. Stiles lets out a small whimper, a _'not now, please not now'_ cry, but all he can do is wait.

Waiting to lose his mind. Waiting to die? Waiting for the shadows to leave.

"Stiles?" He hears Scott say, and a few figures approach him. "Guys, I think he's about to have a panic attack. We need to get him to the locker room before it gets worse. Isaac, grab his other arm."

Stiles feels his arms lift, but he isn't sure how. They feel so heavy and he's oh, so tired. Everything is heavy.

"Stiles, you're gonna be fine. You'll be fine. We're just going to get you in the locker room and we'll calm you down."

Stiles feels like he's underwater. He needs someone to hold him up. Everything is too heavy.

"Guys, it's not… I'm not panicking—" he chokes, but it takes away too much of his breath. But his feet are too heavy, he can't keep moving them. This isn't like a normal panic attack. He feels slower, quieter…

Dead.

"Just a little further, Stiles, just a little – oh shit."

"Do you really think using that kind of language is conducive with speaking to your parent?"

Scott growls. "You should really look in the mirror before calling yourself that."

"Ah, Stilinski. What's wrong with him?"

Stiles lifts his head up. It takes him a while, but the man comes into focus. Stiles groans. "Mr. McCall."

"Mr. Stilinski. Having trouble focusing, are we? I see not much has changed."

Now would be an excellent time not to have a darkness attack. Stiles tells himself to get it together, but it's not working. He blinks again and again, but nothing stays in focus.

Isaac clears his throat. "As you can see, Stiles needs to go to the nurses office. So if you'll excuse us—"

"Wait a second," Mr. McCall grabs Stiles' head, keeping it still. He places a finger in front of his face. "Follow my finger."

Stiles tries and tries, but between the growing pain in his chest and the blurred world before him, he knows he's failed.

"Yes, what I thought. What did you take, Stiles?"

"Dad, now's not the time—"

"Scott, stop trying to protect your friend. I've seen this symptom countless times."

"He's having a panic attack, we need to take him to the nurse's office!"

"I've seen panic attacks – hell, I've seen Stiles have panic attacks when he was little – and this is not it. Scott, this is what someone looks like when something is affecting their brain. I've seen junkies like this all the time. Their mental congruence is turned off. They have a hard time accepting reality."

Stiles can't help but chuckle. Sounds about right.

"Mr. Stilinski, I think you better come with me."

Stiles wants to fight, but when Mr. McCall takes him away from Scott and Isaac, all he can do is stumble forward. Scott and Isaac call out, but something prevents them from following. Stiles can't tell. All he know is that he's being pushed forward when his body feels like lead. "Calm down, Stiles. It's just one blood test. You aren't still afraid of needles, are you?"

This is just a dream. It has to be a dream. Stiles looks down. Twelve fingers.

But why does this feel so real? Maybe it is. Maybe the lines are blurred too far. Maybe he's too deep into the darkness to see the light anymore.

Maybe it's real _and_ not real.

**A/N: I'm horrible, I know! I always thought Agent McCall would end up thinking all this supernatural craziness would be drugs, etc. so I wanted to add that. Also, next chapter will be the… tada! POV switch! Poor Stiles can't really tell the difference anymore…**

**Please leave a review if you have time! I love reading them and it makes my heart all a twit**


	6. What Always Comes, But Never Arrives?

**Oh my gosh guys, I love you. I received one of the funniest, my blush-inducing review today, which inspired my update. Also, I wanted thank Sirnonenath – all your reviews are always so thoughtful and they make me smile.**

**Anyways, this is going to be a split POV. You'll know who's thinking/what, so don't worry. But I think at this point, you need other people to fully round out the story. Let's get started!**

**Also, I'm gonna be stealing some stuff from the old promos! So best watch out! *cape flip***

Chapter 6

_What Always Comes, But Never Arrives?_

"This… just got infinitely worse."

Scott was too speechless to say anything against Isaac. He was still trying to process the fact that his father was here, let alone understand what just happened. "Did Stiles just get arrested by my Dad?" Scott chokes, staring where his best friend once was.

Isaac gapes. "Dude, Scott, get your shit together. I don't think that you having a mental breakdown is going to help anyone right now."

"My dad just arrested Stiles."

"Scott, seriously. Get it together."

"My Dad. Arrested Stiles. While he was about to have a panic attack."

Then Scott's on the floor.

Scott rubs his jaw, struggling to get back to his feet. "What was that for?" Scott's jaw tingles from where Isaac struck him – there had to be a little bit of werewolf in that swing.

"You were panicking and I know this is an excellent time to panic, but can you not?" Isaac snaps, holding out a hand to help Scott to his feet. "Do you not see that this is bad? Your mom's right – we need a plan. Fate is kicking our asses right now."

"I know—" Scott trails off when he feels his pocket vibrate. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Scott groans. "This is the absolute last thing we need."

Isaac peeks over. His eyes darken. "Don't answer it. Whatever it is, it's only gonna make our lives ten million times worse."

Scott shakes his head. "I tried calling him so many times. I need to answer it."

"Don't do it. Stiles just got hauled off by your father because he thought he was high on drugs. Perspective, Scott. Perspective." Isaac shouts.

Scott stares at his phone. "I got to answer it."

"Remember this moment," Isaac says. "Remember this moment as the time where I told you that this was a bad idea and you were going to regret it. Remember this moment because as soon as you say 'that was a bad choice,' I'm gonna say 'I told you so, you shithead.' Just so we're on the same page."

"Shut up, Isaac," Scott mumbles. With trembling hands, Scott answers the phone, "Hello?"

_"I'm gonna kill him."_

"Huh?" Scott asks. "Derek, what are you talking about?"

_"I'm gonna kill him. I don't care that you guys are in school – bring Stiles to my house so I can beat the shit out of him."_

Scott shakes his head, putting his phone on speaker so Isaac can listen in. "What are you talking about? Why do you want to beat the shit out of Stiles?"

Isaac rolled his eyes. "Because he's Derek and has a tendency to overreact."

_"Don't make me put you on my list, Lahey. But returning to our original topic, I need you to put your friend on the phone so he can explain to me why the hell he used my house as his own personal pin board."_

Scott gives Isaac a confused look, who merely shrugs in return. "Personal pin board? What do you mean?"

_"I mean, why the hell is there crap all over the living room of my house? All listed in 'Real', 'Not Real', and 'Not Sure' categories. Tell him to use his own damn house – half of these don't even make sense! They're written in some gibberish language! Actually, put Stiles on the phone so I can yell at him my damn self."_

Scott finds it hard to reply. "Stiles isn't here."

_"Like hell he isn't there. The two of you are never apart. I bet he's right next to you, waving his hands, forcing you to say he's not there."_

Isaac sighs. "Scott's not lying, Derek. He's really not here."

The line goes silent. It's like Derek finally sees past the rage in his mind and hears the boys for the first time. _"…what happened?"_

Isaac waits a few moments for Scott to answer, but when he doesn't, he answers for him. "Scott's dad just arrested him."

Derek doesn't respond. As if he isn't content with the answer just given.

Isaac presses further, watching Scott's face crumble. This was the moment. The moment that Isaac pressed, but now realized he didn't want to see. It's sunk in. Scott's eyes water and he looks to the ground. His father arrested his best friend. During a panic attack. This is where there life is.

"Stiles is…" Isaac begins, not quite sure how to phrase it so it'll be clear to Derek, but won't set Scott off. "Stiles did something and now things are a little… messy. And it doesn't help that Scott's dad just arrested him, thinking he's on drugs."

_"Is he?"_

"Besides his medication, I'd say no. He has other things that are occupying his time." Isaac says, keeping a weary eye on Scott, who's now leaning against the locker. "Can you tell us what some of the things say? The ones that make sense, anyways?"

Derek grumbles, but it's not really menacing. The air of frustration is evaporated. Isaac puts a hand on Scott's shoulder, but it's like he doesn't even register it. _"Well, under the 'Real' section, there's one that says you saved him from… shooting himself?!"_

"Yeah, that's unfortunately real."

_"Why would he do that?"_

Isaac is at a loss. He doesn't know how to balance Scott and Derek at the same time, but breathes easy when he sees two girls approaching them. Lydia and Allison walk up, Allison's eyes full of worry when she see's Scott's broken form. "What's going on?"

"Why are you guys here?"

Lydia shrugs. "You two didn't show up for first period, so we figured something was wrong. I mean, Stiles was having a panic attack."

As soon as the words left her mouth, her eyes widened. "Wait… where is he?" She asks, her voice a little raspy, as if she already knows something's happened. "Where's Stiles?"

Isaac clenches his fist. This is too much for one wolf to deal with.

_"Stiles got arrested, Lydia." _Derek calls out.

Allison stops comforting Scott. Lydia stares at the phone. "Wha… no," she says, looking from Isaac to Scott. She gives a humorless laugh. "That doesn't make any sense. Why would Stiles be arrested?"

The look Scott gives her could break hearts in an instant. Her lower lip trembles. "This is a really elaborate prank if you got Derek involved. But I'm going to go to the nurses office and I'm going to find Stiles. And he's going to laugh at me – he's going to make fun that I even entertained the thought that, while during a panic attack, he was somehow magically arrested for God knows what, and—"

"Lydia." Scott's voice is raspy. He clutches Allison's hand. "Please,"

Lydia draws silent.

Nobody says anything for a while.

_"…so, I'm still here. I think you guys should come see everything. Call Stiles' dad on the way here, make sure he knows what's going on. If my living room teaches me anything, it's that Stiles may not even believe what's happening to him is real."_

Scott scowls. "Is that supposed to make us feel better?"

_"No, it's supposed to make you get here faster. It's supposed to make you terrified."_

**XXX**

"Wow," Scott breathes, overwhelmed by the sight of Derek Hale's living room. "This is a little much."

Derek's in the corner of the room with his arms crossed. "Imagine coming home to this."

Papers are pinned all over the walls, as well as in piles on the floor. Stiles hasty scrawl is across all of them, but some of them aren't even words – just random jumbles of letters that not even Lydia can figure out. "He is actually losing his shit," Isaac says to himself, earning a scowl from Scott. "I'm only stating the obvious! I mean look at this!" Isaac cries, shaking one of the notes in his face. "This isn't a language, this is gibberish!"

Allison approaches the wall, peering at a few of the 'Not Real' entries. "Some of these are terrifying." She says softly, her eyes flitting across a few of the notes. "This one in the hospital? People forcing him to go into his mother's old room? No thank you."

Scott rushes over, his eyes wide. "Oh God, no wonder he's losing his damn mind." Scott thumbs through some more. "Why didn't he just tell us what was going on?" He cries out exasperatedly.

"He did." Derek says, stepping over to the 'Not Sure' wall. "Three times, to be exact. I'd give up too after a while." Derek rips a few more off the wall. "Hey, I'm in this one." Derek lifts his eyebrow. "Stiles subconscious must think I'm a dick."

"You are." Isaac states.

Scott shakes his head. "How is this supposed to help us, again? Besides making me feel completely useless?"

Lydia's on the floor, surrounded by papers. "There's gotta be a trend. There's always something there. A red string, if you will. Something that ties everything together." She flips through a few more. "There's got to be something here. We just have to think like Stiles."

Everyone looks at each other.

Isaac's the first to snort. "So we have to pretend we're crazy."

Lydia glares at him. "No, we have to think like Stiles before the darkness. Because he would be able to figure this out. Sure, I'm the genius here, but Stiles thinks differently. He sees patterns that we don't. He's just different."

Derek chuckles. "No one's arguing that."

"—but there has to be something here. He laid it out like this for a reason. He was trying to see a pattern." Lydia moves over to the coffee table. "He was trying to figure it out, but what is 'it?' What is he seeing that we're not?"

"6:46." Isaac states.

Every looks at him. "Huh?"

Isaac rolls his eyes. "You guys are always telling me to be more helpful and so I'm trying. 6:46 PM. It's all over the coffee table."

Scott rushes over. Sure enough, notes with the time 6:46 PM are scattered all over the coffee table. He runs his fingers over Stiles' scratchy handwriting. "Panic attack - on the 3rd.. Panic attack – on the 5th. Panic attack – on the 7th… all at 6:46 PM." Scott could go on, but he doesn't have the heart to. "He started tracking them. He knew they were coming."

That wasn't the part that scared him. What scared him is, as the dates progressed, there was one very terrifying addition to the pages.

Blood.

Fingerprints and droplets of blood tainted the pages the further they went on. "They're getting more violent." Scott states, his mouth dry.

"But what is the significance?" Lydia asks. Shoving the papers to the side. "What is so important about 6:46 PM? What happened at that time?"

Everyone looks to Scott, but all he can do is shake his head. "I-I don't know." His eyes fill with tears. "I-I'm so sorry, I just don't know."

Allison rushes over and puts her hands on his shoulders, giving them a tight squeeze. "It's fine, we'll just have to figure it out. We need to figure out the significance to 6:46 PM and why it's trigger the darkness so regularly. We'll just figure it out."

"We should probably figure it out sooner rather than later." Isaac says, check his watch. "Because it's officially four o'clock. We have less than three hours to figure this out, find Stiles, and get him un-arrested."

**XXX**

Everything is white.

Stiles stumbles around, trying to regain control of his body, but he can barely stay on his feet. He looks at his hands and blinks a few times. That can't be right. His hands aren't the right color. They're… red.

He's having a hard time catching his breath.

"This isn't you,"

Stiles hears Scott's voice, but it's distant. Easy to push aside.

Why are his hands red?

…did he kill someone?

When he looks at his reflection, his breath catches. He knew this would happen. For some reason, he always knew.

_This is me_.

Stiles is covered in blood. The world is darkening. Everything is making him drown. It's a shame, he always feared drowning. Drowning without water is even worse.

He would turn into the monster he was capable of being.

"No!" Stiles screams and he tries to move his arms forward, but they won't move. They can't.

He blinks and the white room is gone, but he can't be certain of where he is. Something is preventing him from moving. He pulls, but his wrists scream with pain, blood seeping down them. What is going on?

Stiles screams. He screams until there isn't any air left. He pulls his arms to break free until he can't feel his wrists.

He breathes until he can't.

**XXX**

"I need you to repeat that slower and I need you to calm down."

Ms. McCall stares at her son and his 'pack,' all of them looking as though they need to be in stretchers themselves. Scott looks at her imploringly. "Mom, Dad arrested Stiles this morning because he thought that he was on drugs because he couldn't focus on anything, but it was really because he was wigging out due to the darkness. And we don't know what's going to happen, but _something's_ going to happen at 6:46 PM, but we don't know why that time."

Ms. McCall takes a moment to control her anger. "Have you told the Sherriff?"

All the kids look at each other. Scott rubs the back of his head. "We figured the station would tell him. That way they can hold him back when he decides he's going to kill Dad."

"Can't say that I blame him at this point," Ms. McCall sighs, rubbing her face. "Where is Stiles now?"

"That's the thing," Scott says. "We don't know. We've been at Derek's house all day – a place that Stiles has used as his own personal clue board, trying to figure out what all of this means."

"But Scott," Ms. McCall looks at her watch. "It's almost seven. Whatever you think is going to happen, didn't."

Scott rubs the back of his head. "I guess you're right. It's just – do you know why the time 6:46 PM is such a big deal to him? Why he would be having panic attacks consistently at that time? I've been trying to figure out why that time is so important, but I just can't."

Ms. McCall shrugs. "I'm sorry sweetie, but I don't. All I can think of is that there's something that happened in his life – something terrible – at that time. Something that he still keeps with him…" Ms. McCall's eyes go wide. "…today. Oh my God, I think I know what—"

The doors of the hospital swing open and people start yelling. Ms. McCall pushes past Scott, her hand going to her mouth when she sees the sight before her.

The paramedic is rambling off information, but she's not listening.

"Seventeen-year-old white male, stopped breathing due to a panic attack while under surveillance at the police station. Started compressions on sight, restarted his heart after 56 seconds. Still isn't breathing on his own."

Ms. McCall can't stop staring at his wrists.

The stretcher they're wheeling him on is soaked with blood by his wrists, handcuffs digging into his skin. Ms. McCall is shocked back into reality. "Take those off him," she demands, pointing at the handcuffs attached to the side of the gurney. "Take them off right now."

The paramedic looks uncomfortable. "But he's a—"

"Patricia," Ms. McCall states slowly. "You know this boy. He isn't 'seventeen-year-old white male,' he's Stiles Stilinski, the sheriff's son. And right now he's not even breathing on his own, let alone fighting to break out of jail. They are _hurting_ him. You get someone to take them off right this instant."

The paramedic nods and motions for one of the cops to come over. As they unlock the handcuffs, the cop flinches when he grabs them. Ms. McCall gives him a pitiful look. Ken – he's known Stiles since he was born. "He was pulling on them, Melissa." Ken says. "Just screaming. Just screaming and screaming. We couldn't calm him down. He was shouting 'this isn't you' over and over again until… he just wasn't. We tried to get him to stop pulling against the handcuffs but, there was nothing we could do."

"I know," she breathes, putting a hand on his arm. "I know."

"The Sheriff's on his way."

Ms. McCall shuts her eyes. "This is going to get bad."

"It already has."

She looks up and sees her ex-husband walk through the door, his usual calm demeanor a little shaken. A low growl emits from Scott's mouth and Ms. McCall puts a hand on his chest. "Honey, you need to calm down. This is already going to be intense as it is without you adding to it."

She takes a calming breath. Someone has to remain calm. Someone has to keep a clear head. Because her son and the sheriff are definitely not those people and there is a teenage boy being hooked up to a monitor.

Someone has to be the anchor.

Agent McCall opens his mouth when he approaches her, but she just puts her hand up. "No one wants to hear it."

Agent McCall scowls. "This just proves I'm right, that kid is on something."

Ms. McCall snaps, "Yeah, it's called Adderall."

Agent McCall shakes his head. "No, his body is going into shock. It's detoxing from something."

"The only detoxing that needs to happen is Beacon Hills of _you_." She snaps, but her frustration is evaporated with the hospital doors swing open again. "Oh no," she breathes when she sees the person stomping down the hallway.

Before she can say anything, the person approaches Agent McCall, cocks his arm back, and swings. Then he's on the ground. Agent McCall rubs his jaw as he scrambles to his feet. "You just assaulted a federal agent."

Sheriff Stilinski waves a finger in his face. Stepping in between the two, Ms. McCall puts her hand on the sheriff's chest. He flinches, the tension in his shoulders from preparing to swing again filtering out a little. "You can mess with me. You can try and take my job away, you can question my integrity. You can try and turn my own force against me. But, you have crossed a line."

Sheriff Stilinski draws closer, his eyes full of hate. "If you _ever_ go near my son again, if you _ever_ do anything that could even be considered with malicious intent, you'll have a bullet between the eyes."

**A/N: So a little more intense… :D I really loved the episode last night and I hope you guys like this chapter. It looks like I *may* get my Stiles/Isaac friend wish?!**

**If you have some time, please leave me a review! Oh, how I love them.**


	7. What Has Hands, But Cannot Clap?

**So… the craziest thing happened. I was checking the Teen Wolf tag on Tumblr and someone WROTE ABOUT MY STORY. Can I just say I love you guys?! It was seriously the nicest thing. I fangirled for the longest time! **

**Hopefully I'll be able to keep this up for you guys – all your notes and these lovely surprises are just the best! Now, not to keep you waiting any longer… let's get started!**

Chapter 7

_What Has Hands, but Cannot Clap?_

"I really could get into a considerable amount of trouble for that."

Ms. McCall hands the sheriff a coffee, rubbing his back gently. He stiffens at her touch, but gives in a few seconds into it. It's been a while since he's felt this sort of comfort and he isn't sure how he should be reacting to it. It should feel this nice to have someone, when his son is lying on the bed in front of him with a breathing tube in his mouth.

Mr. Stilinski looks at his son. In all respects, it merely looks like he's sleeping. His face is more relaxed than he's seen it in days. Reaching out, he grabs Stiles' hand and rubs his thumb back and forth, a small part of him wishing that it would awaken something in him, even though he knew logically it wouldn't. Stiles remains still.

That's the worst part.

Ms. McCall huffs. "We all know he deserves it." She states, peering out of Stiles' room to where Agent McCall was angrily talking on his cell phone.

"Well, there's no arguing that," Mr. Stilinski mutters. "I've been wanting to do that to him for years – ever since I got that crying phone call from Scott when he left the first time."

Ms. McCall bows her head. Her and Scott have turned the Stilinski men more times than she cared to admit. But they were always there. Unlike her first husband, the Stilinskis were always there. She peers at Stiles and closes her eyes. _Always there_.

That was the problem, though. She never entertained the idea that one of them might not be there anymore. That was a constant in her life: the Stilinski men. Stiles made a key to her house, for goodness sakes! And here they were, Stiles running the risk of not being there anymore. The thought gave her chills.

Mr. Stilinsk groans. "It's just, I was him, you know?"

Ms. McCall frowns. "How do you figure?"

"I was the one in the dark for such a long time." Mr. Stilinski says, frowning as Agent McCall hisses into his phone. "I was the law enforcement official who knew there were more pieces to the puzzle, but didn't know what they were or who would be able to tell me. I kept trying to figure things out and failing because I didn't know the entire chessboard."

"So what are you saying?" Ms. McCall states. "That we should… tell him?"

"God, no." Mr. Stilinski snaps. "I have no desire or need to tell him. I just understand his frustration. By all accounts, he should be frustrated. He doesn't have the whole picture. The whole picture is so much more terrifying than he could ever imagine."

Mr. Stilinski squeezes Stiles' hand, but the heart monitor remains constant. He presses his forehead against the back of his hand, wincing at how cold it feels. "Come on, kid," he whispers into his palm, feeling the threat of tears rising up. "Come on, you can't leave me here. You can't leave me here by myself. I can't be the last one. I can't be alone."

Ms. McCall looks away from this intimate moment, wiping a few tears from her cheeks. A parent should never have to watch their child die. Especially one that has already watched the end of his wife.

A nurse walks into the room and both parents leap to their feet. She hands Ms. McCall a folder. "His lab results." She states, before bowing out of the room, pity shining in her eyes.

They open the folder quickly, scanning the documents. Mr. Stilinski's eyes narrow. "Just because I understand his frustration, doesn't mean I still don't want to kick his ass." He snaps, shutting the folder. Stalking out of the room, he approaches Agent McCall. "You happy now?" He shouts, waving the folder in front of Agent McCall's face until he takes it. "Go on, there's your proof."

"I'll have to call you back." Agent McCall states, putting his cell phone in his pocket. He scans the documents and mutters, "Negative. How can that be?"

"You want to say that louder?" Mr. Stilinski shouts. "Negative. My son's screens came back negative for drugs or alcohol. You arrested an innocent teenager in the middle of school in the midst of a medical emergency. Now my son is in the hospital, unable to wake up. I'm putting that on you." Mr. Stilinski waves a finger in Agent McCall's face and he flinches, stepping back. "On _you_."

"Something is not right with your son, sheriff." Agent McCall says. "I don't care what the screens say, he wasn't having a panic attack when I saw him. Something is happening. This must be incorrect data."

"Now hold on," Ms. McCall states, contemplating stepping in the middle of the two men again, but struggles because she genuinely thinks her ex-husband might need another punch. "You have your proof. There's no reason for you to be in this town anymore. You had your investigation of the sheriff – he wasn't fired. You arrested his teenage son – he wasn't on drugs. I think the best thing you can do at this point is _leave_."

Agent McCall runs his hands down his face, scowling. With a frustrated sigh, he points at Stiles through the window. "There's something wrong with that kid. And I'm not leaving until I figure out what."

The sheriff's eyes grow dark. "I thought I made myself perfectly clear." He saws low, but dripping with venom. "You stay away from my family. You've done enough. Melissa's right. It's time for you to go home."

"Now listen here, Stilinski. My jurisdiction clearly states—"

"Oh my God," Melissa breathes, her hands trembling as she peeks through the other results in Stiles' folder. The two men stop their advances on one another and face her.

"What is it?" Mr. Stilinski snaps, rushing to her side. "Is everything alright – is my son alright?"

Ms. McCall pulls a scan out of the folder, holding it to the light. "Oh my God, somebody call Dr. Harmon!"

"Melissa!" Mr. Stilinski pleads. "What is going on?"

Ms. McCall stares at the boy's terrified father. "I-I'm not the one who can be making this calls. I'm just a nurse. I need to get a second opinion before I—"

Mr. Stilinski grabs her wrist. "Melissa, please."

A few tears roll down her cheeks as the scan shake in her hands. "I think he might need surgery."

**XXX**

"I can't do it," Allison states, pushing the papers away from her. "I can't keep reading these. They're… they're just too horrible. I can't see anything, I can't see any patterns. They're too much. It's too much."

"Imagine living in it," Isaac mutters, rummaging for a few more. Allison throws him a nasty look, which hurts because they seem to be running a pre-relationship marathon, but he can't help it. "Look, I'm sorry, but as much as it sucks that we're here, I think we need to remember that Stiles was experiencing these nonstop. The least we can do is try and figure out what we can do."

Everyone stares at him.

"What?" Isaac says, frowning at all their reactions. "What's with all the looks?"

Scott coughs. "All you and Stiles ever do is argue."

Isaac shrugs. "So? Doesn't mean I want to see him die. And besides," Isaac purses his lips, his voice growing small. "He saved you two." He states gesturing to Scott and Allison. "And I don't have a lot of people in my life, but you two are probably the most important. So, I guess I'm just really grateful for that. Not a lot of people would accept a life-threatening darkness for others and I'm glad Stiles cares enough to do it for you two. I would have no one if you two died. It's purely selfish."

No one says anything after that.

Derek walks into the living room, scowling at the mess before his feet. "You know, this could've been a lot simpler if he just told you guys what was going on and asked you if that was real. It'd be a lot cleaner too."

"He tried that," Lydia pipes up, holding out a couple of sheets of paper. "Twice. He brought me here one time and Scott the second. Both ended up being not real."

Derek's features tense. "This is all very… infuriating."

Scott looks up at him. "Have you ever dealt with anything like this before? Anyone you know have this happen to them?"

"Personally?" Derek asks. "No. I have heard stories of similar instances, but they don't end in ways that would make you feel any better."

"There's got to be something—"

_Slam._

Everyone grows quiet. Derek whirls around, his eyes flashing a vibrant blue. "What the hell was that?" Derek says, rushing out of the room.

Everyone follows, sprinting after him as they peek through the house. Derek leads everyone, placing his hand in front of Scott and Isaac when they try and push past him. He shakes his head, surveying the area.

Everything looks the same. Technically, the house appears untouched. Except there is a chill in the air. A… darkness.

Derek takes a cautious step forward, the slightest bit of hesitation plaguing his movements. The house feels like ice and every step echoes. "Whoever's there, come out." Derek demands, moving down the hallway. No one answers.

The lights flicker until they extinguish. Derek can smell the fear coming from the kids behind him and he knows that they're scooting closer together. Even though he's alone and technically Scott is the 'Alpha,' he can't help but feel the desire to protect them. They're his responsibility, regardless of the color of his eyes.

There's crackling.

"Do you smell… smoke?" Isaac asks, turning his head.

Everyone turns back around. There's an odd light coming from the living room. An orange and red light.

"Oh my God, it's a fire!" Lydia shouts.

Derek's insides freeze, but only for a second. He can smell the smoke and hear the faint crackle of the fire and a layer of sweat breaks out over his forehead. Scott's already sprinting down the hallway, followed by Isaac. He shakes his head, desperately trying to expel the fear from his mind, tearing down the hallway until he sees the fire blazing in his living room.

It isn't big; in fact it only takes Scott and Isaac mere seconds to smother the flames with a few blankets nearby. But once they remove them, everyone gasps.

All the papers. Incinerated.

Lydia hesitantly steps into the room, her hands shaking as she reaches out for a pile of singed papers. They break off in her hands, the ashes trailing at her feet. "Oh no," she breathes, tears welling in her eyes.

Derek steps close to her, resisting the urge to comfort her. That would be strange. Not to mention, it would connect them. A hand on the shoulder. Comfort. It's enough to connect people forever.

And make it more difficult when the world tears them away from you.

He sincerely hopes 'mind reading' isn't one of Lydia's many unusual powers.

"It's all destroyed." Lydia breathes. "All of the letters he wrote. They're gone."

"Who would do something like that?" Allison asks, her voice quaking.

"You're asking the wrong question," Derek states, moving to the back of the room when something catches his eye. He doesn't know why he didn't notice it before. How could he have missed the smell? How could he have missed the anomaly in the room?

He bends down when he reaches the corner of the room, picking up a ball of cloth. "What question should we be asking, then Derek?" Scott asks when Derek doesn't continue.

Derek grimaces, unfolding the ball of cloth. It's stiff, a dried liquid permeating most of the fabric. He unfolds it, wincing at the smell of dried blood.

He's seen this shirt before. It's basic – a white shirt with dark blue trim around the sleeves and neckline. He's seen Stiles wear it before.

Except now? Now it's coated in dry blood, splotches staining the fabric.

"We should be asking _what_ would do this."

**XXX**

Ms. McCall looks at her watch. _6:38_. "They should be here by now," she breathes, trying to ignore Mr. Stilinski's crumpled form in the corner of the room. She can barely keep herself together, let alone comfort the man with the dying son. So instead she continues to check her watch in hopes they'll show up.

Fortunately, the group of teenagers – plus Derek Hale for some surprising reason – comes bursting into his room. "We're not late, are we?" Scott asks, out of breath. He peers down at his best friend and instantly closes his eyes and looks away, as if he forgot what it was like to see him. Ms. McCall reaches out to grab his arm, pulling him close. Scott can't look at her.

"No, it's not _6:46_ yet," she says softly. "But there's something else we need to discuss."

"What now?" Lydia whimpers, leaning against the back wall.

Ms. McCall takes a breath. The pain of it takes the words out of her mouth. She's already had to explain it to the doctor and then to the sheriff. But these aren't simply medical words anymore – it feels like a death sentence. "We got Stiles' results back. Because of his state, we did a full scan of his body – the toxin screen, a CAT scan, the works. We got all the results back." Ms. McCall winces.

"There were irregularities in his CAT scan."

"The darkness?" Scott asks.

Ms. McCall shakes her head. "Actually, for the first time, the supernatural isn't involved in this one, sweetie. Stiles has… I mean, for a while now… he…" The words are lost in her throat.

"Stiles' brain is bleeding." Mr. Stilinski finishes, his voice cracking into a sob.

Scott blinks. "B-Bleeding? W-What, I don't understand."

Ms. McCall sighs. "It appears that it's been happening for a while. It's been such a small, minute injury that it's gone unnoticed. And with everything that's happened – all the headaches that one would assume with the injury—"

"He assumed was from the darkness." Isaac mutters, shaking his head.

"He's going into surgery at _6:55_." Ms. McCall says. "I don't know what to expect at _6:46_, but I don't want to find out with him open on the surgery table."

"B-But how?" Lydia asks, moving over to Stiles. She grabs his free hand, her eyes focused on the rising and falling of his chest, as if she's afraid if she doesn't watch, it'll stop. "How did that even happen?"

Ms. McCall sighs. "Without Stiles, I'm not sure we'll know. With all the stuff that goes on in Beacon Hills, it could've been a myriad of different—"

"The car crash," Scott says, his eyes widening.

Mr. Stilinski straightens in his chair. "What car crash?" He demands.

Scott chokes, aghast. "On his way to get you guys, he crashed his Jeep. I helped him push it out of the mud. H-He said he was fine, he said that the biggest problem was the dent on his car. He said not to worry—" Scott cuts off and he closes his eyes. "He said not to worry about it."

Mr. Stilinski gets out of his chair. "You mean to tell me that all this time, my son was walking around with a brain injury that _everyone_ knew about!"

"I didn't think it was a big deal! He said not to worry about it!"

"Just like he said that he didn't do anything with the doors, I suppose!"

"Stop yelling, this isn't helping!" Ms. McCall shouts, but Mr. Stilinski is past the point of hearing.

"Are you guys insane? Do you actually expect me to sit here and—"

_Beep._

"Oh my God, he's flat-lining." Ms. McCall breathes with Stiles' monitor starts to make noise.

_6:46 P.M_.

Stiles' body starts convulsing, his hand jerking out of Lydia's grasp. She retreats against the wall, her hand going up to her mouth as tears run down her face.

"Help me get him on his side!" Ms. McCall shouts and the sheriff runs over, twisting his son's body until he's propped up properly. "Come on, Stiles, come on. Back to normal, sweetie. Just give us enough time to get you into surgery. Back to normal."

The convulsions stop.

But so does his heart.

**XXX**

Stiles looks up to the empty sky. He doesn't know how else to describe it. There aren't any stars or clouds, sun or moon. It's just gray. Nothing else, nothing more.

His limbs are heavy, but filled with pain. It's so constant, he barely even registers it. He's shaking.

"Row, row, row your boat," he chokes out, his voice weak and crumbling. "Gently down the stream."

He can't even lift his head. All he can do is look at the empty sky as it darkens, transforming into a vast blackness that chills the blood in his veins.

He's lying on top of the Nematon, the darkness swarming him.

He can't move.

All he can do is wait.

"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily," he sings softly, unable to control himself.

The darkness continues to creep, overtaking everything in the area. He finally turns his head slightly, only able to see the indentations of wood from the Nematon. But even they are slowly filling with darkness.

_"Life is but a dream."_

**A/N: What do you think? *shivers* Way to make a childhood song creepy as hell, Teen Wolf.**

**So I brought in some pieces that I've always thought were important: 1) the much talked about shirt! The one that Stiles has worn every episode and HAS to be something. 2) The car crash! I still refuse to believe that he can get a head trauma and then it never be spoken of again. I HAVE to believe that it's going to be revisited/a part of Stiles' mental deterioration on the show. (girl's gotta dream about continuity, right?!)**

**Please leave a note if you have the time! They always make me smile so much!**


	8. If You Have It, Don't Share

**I FANGIRL OVER YOUR NOTES SO MUCH.**

**It's getting ridiculous. Like, you guys are amazing. I squee with reckless abandon. It's insane.**

**NOTE: So, I was waiting for Monday's new episode because I have a clear idea of where this is going, and I was wondering if canonically, it would be difficult to write with the show. BUT YOU GUYS. I always saw this as a two-parter. This chapter marks the end of Part One. I nearly screamed because the show is actually going roughly in the SAME direction as I had in mind! *muppet flails* Which means: my brain won't get all jumbled because of the episodes.**

**After this chapter: everything's gonna shift. You'll see why. Let's just say… it's my 'atomic number' moment. *evil chuckles***

Chapter 8

_If You Have it, Don't Share. If You Share, You Can't Have._

"Wake up.

Wake up, Stiles. Wake up, wake up, wake up."

He says it over and over. The answer is always the same.

Silence.

Mr. Stilinski buries his face into the clean sheets. The smell of disinfectant burns his nostrils and he fights the urge to pull away, but he doesn't. He's afraid of pulling away. He's afraid of not being present. Because last time he wasn't present and he missed his family's last moments of life. Someone was going to have to drag his ass out of this room if they ever wanted to leave.

There's a slight tapping on the door. Mr. Stilinski looks up from Stiles' bed, his eyes darkening when the person walks through. "You know, I really don't have the energy to deal with you right now." He states, straightening when Agent McCall strides into the room. "It'd probably be best if you just left."

But Agent McCall doesn't leave. He steps up to Stiles' bed. Mr. Stilinski contemplates telling him exactly where he could go, but can't bring himself to do it when he sees a slight softness around his eyes. "Did his surgery go well?" He finally asks, reaching out to touch Stiles, but stopping before he could do so.

Mr. Stilinski looks at his child. So still. He can barely hear the beeping of the heart monitor. If he wakes up, he'll never tell Stiles to be quiet again. "Yeah. The doctor said he should've woken up by now, though, but they're not sure why he hasn't." Mr. Stilinski reaches out to grab Stiles' shoulder. He knows exactly why he doesn't wake up, but he doesn't say that to Agent McCall. Instead, he says, "He thinks it has to do with the seizure he had before the surgery. That maybe it caused more damage."

"I'm sorry," Agent McCall says, not taking his eyes off of Stiles. "Hell of a kid. Really."

Mr. Stilinski snorts. "Yeah. Sometimes too much to handle."

"He loves you, though."

Mr. Stilinski stares at his face. What he would give to see those eyes open. "Yeah, he does. Makes some questionable decisions because of that, too."

"That sentence could apply to both of our sons. Well, with Scott and his mom." Agent McCall grows quiet.

Mr. Stilinski grabs Stiles' hand. He can't help it. He needs to touch him. Make sure he's there. Make sure his skin is still warm, to make sure that the beeping in the monitor isn't a glitch. He can't help but feel a little trace of pity for McCall. As much as he wants to loathe him, it was so much easier to do from afar. Now that he's here and he sees the desperation in his eyes as he tries to reach out to Scott, he pities him.

Because, he's not ever questioned for a second if Stiles loved him.

"Do you want anything?" Agent McCall asks after a second, clearing his throat and retreating from Stiles. "I could get you a coffee or maybe some dinner?"

Mr. Stilinski motions to a table filled with food and mugs of coffee to his right. "People have been bringing me stuff all evening. Thanks for the offer, though."

"Don't mention it." Agent McCall huffs, but he hesitates at the door. His hands grip the frame. He turns around. "I was sure he was on something. I was certain of it. I-I had no idea that he… I didn't know—"

"None of us did," Mr. Stilinski says.

"I never would have taken him in if I'd known."

Mr. Stilinski lets out a breath. There are too many emotions lit inside him that he doesn't know which to choose. He tries to speak as evenly as possible. "I know. You wouldn't do that." He states.

Agent McCall nods and moves to turn around.

"But let me say this," Mr. Stilinski says, his jaw set. "If that was any other kid in any other situation, you wouldn't have done what you did either. If any child in that high school was having the symptoms that my son displayed, you wouldn't have taken him directly to the police station. You would've taken them to the nurse first and then to the station. That's the protocol. I understand that you and I have our differences. We have our history. But the fact that you would project that history on my son is unacceptable."

"Listen, I—"

"No." Mr. Stilinski snaps. He gives a humorless laugh. "This kid, this jumble of energy and double talk and research and mischief – he's all I have left in this world. You're messing with me, but you're messing with him as well. And I can't – I won't – have that. I know he's difficult to deal with sometimes. He talks too much, can't concentrate, and damn it all, he's way too smart for his own good. But he's _my_ person. And you better treat him as you would any other teenager in that school from this moment on. Not at the teenager of the man you have a vendetta against. Are we clear?"

"Sheriff—"

"I said, are we clear?"

Agent McCall looks at Stiles one last time. With a slight nod, he exits the room.

His absence is replaced quickly.

Except this visitor doesn't say much. He stands by the doorway, glaring at the sight before him. Crossing his arms, Derek's gaze is fixated on Stiles, the lines in his face deepening.

"Hale?" Mr. Stilinski asks, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

Derek doesn't respond, but moves closer until he's looming over Stiles' bed. "I didn't think it was possible," he mutters, his words barely understandable. "I had to see it for myself."

"What?"

"Silence in the same room Stiles is in." Derek mutters. He looks around. "It's nothing like I would've imagined." Derek moves to the corner of the room and sits in a chair. "It's so much worse."

Mr. Stilinski frowns. If this was the chessboard, Derek was a pretty big piece of the puzzle. He wasn't sure if he should threaten him for all the trouble he's caused or thank him for saving his son more than a few times. He settles on the most pressing question. "What are you doing here?"

Derek blinks. It's clear he's asking himself the same thing. "We look out for each other. All of us." He settles on.

"We?"

"Scott, Isaac, Stiles… me." Derek says. "Usually there's something we can do. The two of them – Scott and Stiles – they're always in motion. Always trying to do the right thing. It's exhausting," Derek laughs softly. "I never thought a bunch of teenagers would be so integral to my life, but there it is." Derek bends forward, studying Stiles intently like he's a puzzle he's desperately trying to figure out. A riddle. "It's so frustrating, not being able to do anything. Not knowing anything. Just waiting."

"I'm guessing it's not in a wolf's nature to be patient."

Derek chuckles. "That it is not."

Neither of them say much after that.

It's aggravating how much Mr. Stilinski appreciated Derek Hale's presence next to him. There's something to be said for people you can sit in complete silence with and have it be normal. Not that he ever thought a convicted felon would be that person, but it was a nice change of pace.

The lights flicker.

Mr. Stilinski lifts his head up. "What was that?"

Derek is already on his feet. The machines in the room flicker and Mr. Stilinski grips his son's arm. He's hooked up to machines. Now is not the time for them to malfunction.

The lights go back to normal.

Derek doesn't relax, though. He peeks his head out the door to see a few nurses running down the hallway, confused. "Must've been a glitch," and "be sure to comfort anyone who was startled," can be heard, but there's no explanations. Frowning, he returns his attention back to the sheriff. "It looks like it was just a generator surge." Derek says with a shrug.

Mr. Stilinski sighs. "Out of all days for something like that to occur, of course it had to be this one."

"That does seem to be our luck," Derek says, but he still doesn't sit back down. Something doesn't feel right.

Everything is a little colder. The hair on the back of his neck prickles and he clenches his fists.

The lights dim again. Except this time, they stay dim.

The machines start to make a myriad of horrible noises, their light flickering a few times before going out completely. "What the hell—" Mr. Stilinski shouts, leaping up from his chair.

Derek's mind goes blank.

He freezes. It's the world's most inopportune time to have his brain shut down, but suddenly the hospital's dark and all of the machines are no longer on. He looks from Stiles to his father, who is standing at the side of the bed, staring at his son in horror as the darkness makes his skin a ghastly white.

Derek shakes his head. "Start compressions on his chest! Take the breathing tube out! I'll go get someone."

Mr. Stilinski peers at his son, his hands quaking as he attempts to do as he's instructed. But there are so many wires and his hands are shaking so much. He lets out a frustrated noise, stopping Derek before he can rush into the hall.

Derek can sense the pain radiating off of him. It's almost too much to handle. There are very few things in this world that would make him emotional, and that feeling of such intense love that the Stilinski's have for one another is one of them.

Derek puts his hands over the sheriff's, untaping a few of the tubes from Stiles' chest. "Let me help," he says quietly, removing Mr. Stilinski's hands. "Why don't you find someone?"

Mr. Stilinski blinks away a few tears. "I can't leave him."

"I'll be here." Derek states calmly. "I will do it. Go get help."

Mr. Stilinski squeezes his eyes shut, his fists trembling. He moves swiftly toward the door. "You better." He snaps. "My son better be alive when I get back. I don't care if you're a supernatural creature, I will do some research and I will kill you myself."

Derek only nods.

As soon as the sheriff leaves Derek notices his hands are trembling themselves. Not like Mr. Stilinski's by any means, but quaking a little. He presses them against Stiles' chest, rhythmically pushing down. "You better stay alive because I one hundred percent believe that your father will murder me if you don't."

It's odd. All the times he wished Stiles would shut up and he could be at peace with his thoughts, he never thought he'd be begging for noise. But being alone with Stiles and silence isn't like anything he ever imagined. It's a loneliness that cannot be expressed. Because there should be noise. And his thoughts are too loud and too awful to listen to.

So he keeps the compressions. Steady. Rhythmic. One right after another.

"Oh my God, is he okay?"

Scott rushes into the room, soon followed by his own 'pack.' Derek can only look up, but doesn't respond. He can't be distracted. Steady compressions.

"Derek, what's going on? Is Stiles okay?" Scott asks again, rushing over. He looks from Stiles to Derek's concentrated face, pressing his chest again and again. "The lights are out, what is going on?"

"Shut _up_, Scott!" Derek breathes, his hands faltering as he yells. Clenching his jaw, he continues. "If this kid dies, I'm going to have a bullet of mountain ash in my skull. So let me do this and shut up."

Everyone grows quiet. Derek can hear Lydia's stifled whimpering and Scott's heavy breathing as he tries to maintain some level of composure.

"Let me," Isaac says, stepping next to Derek. Derek glares at him, but Isaac hovers his hands over Derek. "I'll do this and you can talk to Scott and everyone. To _calm them down_." Isaac states, widening his eyes.

Derek doesn't stop for a second. He's afraid to. He's afraid that one moment, that one misstep would mean the end of a life. But after a few more compressions, Derek raises his hands ever so slightly and Isaac scoops under and takes over.

Derek sighs, ignoring the slight tension in his arms. "I don't know what's going on, but this isn't good. Those machines are keeping him alive – I don't know what any of it means."

"Does it feel… colder to anyone else?" Allison asks, clutching her arms to her chest.

Derek looks around and notices everyone is shivering. He steps outside of the room, peering down the hallways. There aren't any nurses. No one's running around, desperately trying to turn the lights back on.

Somehow the hallway's getting darker.

"You guys," Derek says, backing away from the door. "I think we've got a problem."

"What else is new." Isaac mutters, his eyebrows furrowed.

Swinging the door shut, Derek starts placing chairs against it. "Push everything you can up against the door. Make sure no one can get it. Don't let anyone in."

"Who?" Scott asks, staring as Derek starts moving a few pieces of furniture against it. "We need medical help and they're not going to be able to get in if you continue to—"

The door rattles.

"Don't let them in!" Derek shouts.

Scott stares incredulously. "That could be his dad! Or my mom! We need medical help, Derek!"

He moves to pull some of the stuff away from the door, but Derek lunges in front of it. "Scott, don't! It's not safe! It's not safe to let them in!"

Scott's eyes flash red. "How do you _know_?"

Then Lydia screams.

An earth-shattering, painful scream that causes everyone to duck to the floor, covering her ears. It rattles the windows and furniture, making Derek wince. It's several seconds until it subsides.

Derek shakes his head and stands, watching as everyone else does the same. Then his heart stops. "Isaac – Stiles!" He shouts, but it doesn't matter.

Isaac scrambles off the floor, returning his hands to Stiles' chest. "Oh my God," he breathes, flinching when he does so, but he doesn't stop. "He's so cold."

Scott rushes over, his eyes widening when he takes his best friend's hand. "No." He breathes, shaking his head. "No. No, no, no, _NO!"_ Scott shouts, gripping Stiles' arm. "He can't be…"

The intercom crackles. Everyone looks up, except for Isaac, who's entire body is shaking. One. Two. Three.

_"Merrily, merrily, merrily… merrily."_

The words are broken and shattered over the intercom, but understandable. Derek's breath hitches. It's so eerie and severe, but he knows exactly who it is.

"Stiles…" He breathes, looking at the still boy on the bed.

_"Life… is but… a dream."_

**XXX**

"Let us in!"

Muffled shouts call from the other side of the door. Everyone in the room tenses as it shakes, but then the lights flicker back on.

"Derek Hale, if you do not open this door in two seconds, I'm killing you anyways!"

Scott rushes to his feet. Pulling pieces of furniture away from the door, Scott tugs it open. As soon as the door is even a little bit, Mr. Stilinski comes barreling in, tripping over a chair. "What the hell?" He snaps, staring at the mess on the floor. "What the hell happened?"

But he doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he runs over to Stiles. "He's so cold. Melissa!"

Ms. McCall isn't far behind, desperately trying to drag a cart into the room. Scott shoves things aside so it can get in, but she doesn't wait. Instead, she runs to his side and places her stethoscope to his chest. "Still has a heartbeat. It's faint, but it's there. Scott, I need you to hand me those warming blankets. Wrap them around his legs and feet. We need to get his temperature back up."

"Where were you?" Derek cries, yanking the cart into the room for something to do.

"We got locked out of the hospital." Mr. Stilinski says.

Derek stares. "Locked out of the hospital? How is that even possible? Why were you even outside!"

Ms. McCall glowers at him and his loud growling softens to a dull roar. "I have no idea. One moment, everyone's freaking out because of the outage, the next there are these firefighters shoving everyone out of the hospital. The sheriff here almost punched on in the face, but by the time we realized something else was going on, we couldn't get it. What happened?"

Everyone looks at each other, but doesn't say a word.

What could they?

But the words – the words projected over the intercom haunt the room. Everyone is clutching themselves. Lydia stares at Stiles like he's already dead, silent tears streaming down her face. Scott collapses on the ground, putting his face in his hands. Derek even notices Allison grab Isaac's shaking hands. He hasn't stopped shaking since he let Stiles go. She whispers something in his ear, but he only looks at Stiles.

Then there's a skip.

"Seriously," he chokes and everyone in the room freezes. Stiles' eyes flutter open, unfocused and distant.

"Can you guys just _do each other_, already? The sexual tension is _killing_ me. Literally."

**A/N: Ta-Da! He's awake!**

**I'm so excited because canonically, as I stated above, the show is now running along the lines of what I had in mind. So think of this as the end of 'Part One' (Or 3A if you will – but hopefully makes more sense than the actual 3A… lol). Now that Stiles is back in the land of the living, what's going to happen? Dying is never a good sign, especially when you're lying on top of the Nematon singing creepy songs, amirite?!**

**Please leave a note if you have time! It makes me want to snergle you all!**


	9. Life Is But A Dream

**Hey you guys! You are so amazing! *hugs* I have to admit I laughed when I read things like "I wish you wrote for TW, except not really because you torture Stiles…" and "you are Satan." SO MUCH LOVE. I know you guys are just trying to make me feel all the warmth! **

**Okay, so Cuppa Char: I have never heard "Feel Me," but I listened to it before writing this and it was PERFECT. Oh my gosh – so amazing! I listened to it a few times and it's so perfect. I wish I knew how to GIF things, because I would SO make a GIF collection for this story, potentially with those lyrics. THANK YOU for introducing me to this song!**

**Also, I was asked who I ship. To be honest, I don't really ship people together for the most part. I kinda like Teen Wolf in that it shows how teenagers can change from different relationships – sorta the 'Be Your Own Anchor' idea. But I like the idea of Lydia and Stiles, but I'm stuck between wanting them to be a BrOTP or an OTP. I think ScottxKira are pretty cute as well. But I'm not hardcore swung in any way, to be honest.**

**So, are you ready for the next round of confusion? So Stiles is awake… what does that mean? And as we all remember… ****_Life is but a dream_****.**

Chapter 9

_Life is But a Dream_

"Stiles, is everything okay?" Scott asks, but Stiles doesn't answer. "Do you need something?"

He's staring at the door. Stiles stands outside his house, the entire group of them a few feet behind him, unsure of what he's waiting for. His body is so still, but he's simply standing there.

Scott looks at the sheriff helplessly, but it goes unnoticed. Mr. Stilinski rushes to Stiles side, grabbing his medical bag and opening the door for him. Stiles blinks as if he just realized there were people around him for the first time and then gives his dad an easy smile. "I was wondering when someone was gonna help me," he jokes, his voice quaking only enough for a werewolf to notice. "I mean, out of everyone here, who has had life-threatening surgery in the past week? Only me? Then why am I carrying everything?"

His father laughs, his eyes glittering in a way Scott hadn't seen in a while.

But Scott wasn't so sure. He watches Stiles step into his house, but instead of the bull in a china shop way usually approached movement, he's careful. Calculated, even. Scott just can't shake the feeling.

Something's off.

"I think so too," Derek mutters, approaching Scott. Scott raises his eyebrow, pretending he hasn't a clue what he's referring to, but Derek only snorts. "Please, I can see your face. Something's not right with Stiles."

"Leave him alone," Lydia hisses, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "He's just had surgery on his brain. He's allowed a few off days."

"You don't believe that." Derek snaps, folding his arms across his chest. Everyone stands in front of the house, all afraid to approach it. "Let's remind ourselves what happened: Stiles was dead. Like cold and dead. Lydia, you even screamed."

Lydia's voice is soft and broken. "It could've been someone else."

"Someone else happened to die at that exact moment?" Derek scoffs.

"Dude," Scott snaps. "I understand you're trying to prove a point, but that's my best friend you're talking about. If you could do it a little nicer, I would appreciate it."

Derek exhales. His face scrunches like he's about to snap back, but then he relaxes. "You're right, sorry. I'm just trying to point out that Stiles' voice came over the intercom while he was dead. Something's not right."

"Hey!" The sheriff calls from the porch. "You guys staying for dinner?"

They all look at each other. Scott calls back, "Yeah, we'll be in there in a minute!"

Everyone stares at him incredulously.

"Derek's got a point," Scott insists. "And if something else is going on, we need to look after him."

"It's probably something we should be doing regardless." Isaac mutters with a shrug.

"Aww, would you look at that, Allison?" Lydia says, rubbing Isaac's arm. "Isaac's warming up to Stiles! Stiles just has the best boyfriends!" She says with a chuckle, grabbing Scott's arm.

She moves to Derek and he murmurs, "Touch me and lose that appendage."

Scott sighs. Some things don't change.

Then, Stiles looks at them through the window. It's strange, how his face is shadowed. It makes him look older. Look… gaunt. Scott tells himself it is the near-death experience, but there's a shadow. Something dark brewing behind those usual impish eyes. For a brief moment, they're back to normal. Stiles beams at them through the window and gives them all a wave, watching them as they enter the house. Then his smile falls.

Some things do change.

Mr. Stilinski's lumbers out of the kitchen, still grinning. "Alright kids, I hope you all know by 'being invited to dinner,' of course I mean that I am ordering a pizza. Stiles does all the cooking in this house and I'm not sure if the fair thing to do after he's been released from the hospital is to force him to make us all dinner."

Stiles smiles. "Again with the manual labor on the sick on. I see how it is, Pops."

"Would you kindly shut up?" Mr. Stilinski says. "I'm trying to talk to your friends." His grin falters a little. "Actually, I didn't mean shut up because at this point, I'm happy with you talking nonstop, but I really do—"

"I'm just messing with you, Dad." Stiles laughs. "But if you want to give me the clear to talk as much as I can, I'd be happy to oblige. I've been meaning to have a discussion with you that involves the amount of milk we keep in the house. I mean, I can go through that stuff in like, a day. So, I was thinking if we started buying _two _gallons of milk at a time, I can stop needlessly driving to the gas station, paying a premium on milk that I could get half price at the grocery store—"

The sheriff puts his hand up. "That's a great story, Stiles. But, pizza?"

Stiles puts his hands up. "First you tell me to shut up, then you tell me to talk, then you tell me to shut up again. Good God man, make up your mind."

Scott quietly observes his friend. By all accounts, this rambling train of thought and his puckish grin seemed normal. He shakes his head. Maybe he's projecting his own fears on Stiles. He needs to get a grip and appreciate the fact that his friend is even here and talking.

He can't, though.

He missed everything last time.

"Dude," Scott says, clapping Stiles on the shoulder. "How about while we're waiting for pizza to arrive, we finally watch _Star Wars_?"

Stiles' smile falters. He looks at Scott, confused, his eyes narrowing. "W-Why would we do that?" He asks.

Everyone looks at each other. Even Mr. Stilinski's grin falls a little bit as his fingers hesitate over the numbers on the phone. "Because Stiles," Scott says, nervously glancing at everyone around him. "You're always telling me that I need to watch it, but we have these supernatural problems that keep preventing me from ever sitting down and seeing it."

Stiles laughs. "O-Of course!" He says, his voice a little higher than it usually is. "I-I just meant why would you want to watch it because I _assumed_ you'd watched it already because I told you to, like, a million times, but I guess that shows what kind of friend you really are."

A few people chuckle, but Scott only does so to try and ease the tension. It doesn't help that Derek looks like he's about to implode. "Yeah man, I'm the worst." Scott says. "But we can fix that now."

"I still can't believe it's been this long in your life and you haven't seen _Star Wars_," Stiles says. "Like, what would've happened if I actually died? You make the _worst_ life choices. How are you ever going to survive without me? I mean, honestly. It's be like putting baby Bambi in the middle of the woods during hunting season."

"You got me there," Scott says with a half-smile. "I'm not sure what I would do without you."

He eyes Derek, who's still glaring at Stiles like something he did mortally offended him.

Dinner was as nice and lovely as it could've been, particularly with Derek not speaking for the majority of the time. The sheriff just seemed so relieved to have his son sitting at the table, cracking jokes and rolling his eyes, he didn't even notice the group make eyes with each other when Stiles didn't tell his dad that putting sausage and pepperoni on the pizza was a recipe for an early death. Or when he mentioned that he liked Isaac's scarf.

It bothered them so much, that when they all left they were distracted.

They didn't even notice the message written on the window from where Stiles was standing earlier, observing them as they entered his house.

_HELP ME WAKE UP._

**XXX**

Everything's cold.

His body is paralyzed. He knows that his eyes aren't open and that he can't move his toes, but that's all. That's all he knows. His chest is heaving. _Open your eyes_, he tells himself, but it doesn't work. It feels like his insides are on fire. Everything is buzzing, like his ribcage is a beehive. _Open your eyes. Open them. Open them._

They snap open.

Stiles sits straight up, every breath tighter and more difficult to manage. He tries to grasp something tangible – anything – but all he gets are a handful of leaves. He brings them closer to his face, as if that would make everything make sense, but instead it just makes his hands and face dirty.

He whips his head around, his chest heavy and mind racing, tears dotting his eyes. "W-Where am I?" He calls out, but there is no answer.

Shakily getting to his feet, Stiles tries to wipe his hands off on what he'd imagine his shirt would be, but feels the coldness of his skin. He looks down, noticing all he's in is the pair of pajama bottoms he put on the night before. That's all he remembers.

He's in the middle of the woods.

"H-Hello?" Stiles calls out, a part of him wondering if someone would appear. Nobody does. "I-If this is a prank, v-very funny. Way to harass the kid who's been in the hospital for the past few days. Great life choices, there. Time to take me home now."

But no one laughs. No one comes.

Stiles moves to leave, but winces when he does so. His feet are covered in blood, cuts lining the base of them.

He did this.

The question isn't 'Real or not real' any longer, but: what have I missed? Or, something for more terrifying:

What have I done?

It takes Stiles a great deal of effort to stumble out of the woods, the cold pavement of the road a welcome change when he reaches the highway. He clutches himself, the coldness finally getting to him. Even the tips of his fingers are blue. He looks at them, counting them quickly to make sure there were ten, but then something distracts him. There's something under his fingernails… is it—

Blood?

Stiles closes his eyes. He tells himself it's because of his feet. Or he scratched himself in this mindless trip into the woods. He clutches himself tighter. "Nothing happened," he tells himself. "You just went on a walk in the woods. In… the middle of the night. That's normal, right? People take walks in the middle of the night all the time. This is totally normal."

A car skids to a halt behind him, the driver pulling off to the side of the road. For a brief moment, Stiles is thrilled. Walking a mile longer to his house isn't ideal, but when the person jumps out of their car and rushes over, Stiles groans.

"Stiles!"

Stiles winces as Allison sprint over to him, her eyes wide. She stops before him, her hands reaching out like she wants to hold him or grab his hands, but she doesn't. Stiles looks at her awkwardly. "This… isn't want it looks like." He mutters.

"I don't even know what it looks like," Allison breathes, her eyes taking in all of Stiles.

"Well, I'd imagine it looks like me walking on the highway, half naked without shoes on."

"Isn't that exactly what's going on?"

"Yes, but I know you are going to think this is a crazy thing." Stiles says. "I'm not crazy."

Allison's expression grows soft. "I never said you were, Stiles."

"You didn't with words, at least."

Allison sighs. She finally reaches the rest of the way, grabbing his shoulder. "Come on, let's go get you cleaned up. I'll drive you home—"

"No!" Stiles shouts, making Allison jump. "Oh, sorry. I just mean, I don't want to upset my Dad. He's so happy that I'm home and I can only imagine how much I stressed him out, so I think I'd prefer to just not run the risk of walking through the door looking like this and him seeing."

"Wouldn't he be freaking out you're not in bed?"

Stiles frowns. "I hadn't thought of that. I'll just tell him I went to Scott's early to get caught up on homework stuff."

"Stiles—"

"I already put him through so much, I don't want to add more."

He says this with such conviction, Allison concedes. "Fine, we'll go to my place. I think I have a few of Scott's old things from when we were going out that you can use."

Stiles gives her a reproachful look, but can't find any reason to think that she's lying. Besides, his feet hurt like hell and he's tired of walking. "I'm gonna bleed all over your car."

"Please," Allison snorts. "I'm surprised it's taken this long to get blood on the upholstery."

Stiles grins, but remains quiet the entire ride. It's not like he didn't like Allison, he just wasn't sure how to talk to her. They only really met because of Scott. The majority of their interactions were strictly supernatural-based or Scott-based. He wasn't sure of how to behave when it was Stiles-based.

So when the air got thick and his leg started bouncing up and down from nervousness, he couldn't stop himself when he blurted out, "Please don't tell Scott."

Allison stares at him.

"Sorry," Stiles winces. "I didn't mean to yell that. It's just, I don't want to freak him out."

"Stiles, he needs to know if you're wandering around in the woods in your sleep."

Stiles shrugs. "So what? Some people sleep walk. That's a thing. I've read about it."

"I'm sure you have," Allison laughs. "But he needs to know, Stiles. I don't feel comfortable keeping this from him. But it shouldn't even come from me. _You_ need to tell him."

Stiles leans his head against her window. "Yeah, I know," he sighs. "I just thought this would be over once I died, you know?"

"You didn't die, Stiles. You're right here."

Stiles laughs hollowly. "Please. I read my chart. It said that the power outage lasted thirteen minutes. They said compression would've only kept me alive for four. So, that means for _nine minutes_ I was technically dead. _Dead_, Allison. Like, not living."

Allison grips the steering wheel. "I know what dead means, Stiles."

"Yeah, well," Stiles sighs. "Which means in the past month, I have died like, three times. Two intentionally, one not. That's a lot of times to die, Allison. I'm not a fucking _cat_. One of these times, it's gonna stick. I'm gonna _die_ die. And when that happens, maybe it'll be for the best."

"You don't mean that."

Stiles shrugs. "I'm not sure what I mean anymore. I haven't for a while."

Allison has no response to that. It's strange how a person can take up so much space and be so small at the same time. She looks at him and he's grown into himself – he's filled out, grown a few inches, put on some muscle. He's at a place where she'd even put him under the category of 'hot' under non-supernatural darkness circumstances. But at the same time, it feels like there's something lost. That he's shrinking. She doesn't even know where to start fixing that.

_We protect those who cannot protect themselves_.

Allison is certain Stiles falls under that category.

One hand on the steering wheel, Allison uses her free hand to grab his. She gives it a gentle squeeze, keeping her eyes on the road – something she's thankful for. She doesn't want him to see that they're filled with tears. "I never properly thanked you." She says. "For closing my door. I know we don't know each other that well, but I can't begin to say how touched I am by that. You saved my life. And now I'm going to do everything in my power to save yours."

Stiles snorted. "I feel like you got the raw end of the deal. At least I knew how to save you. I can't even begin to think of how you all are going to save me."

"We'll find a way."

"You know, we've been doing this supernatural stuff a long time now, Allison." Stiles says hauntingly. "There was bound to be a time when we just couldn't figure it out."

The arrive at Allison's house. Allison doesn't have a response to that, because she knows empty words won't help. She'll comfort him when she has a plan. After all, it is in her blood to protect.

Instead, the rest of the morning is filled with the sound of gentle rushing water instead of empty comforts, the two of them waiting until the blood-red water turned clear.

**XXX**

"Dude, is that my shirt?"

Stiles looks down – of course that would be the first thing Scott noticed. Stiles frowns. "Uh, yeah. I didn't realize I was wearing your clothes until I got here."

"I've been looking for that for months!" Scott complains. "Why are your hoarding my clothes?"

Stiles makes a face. "How did we get from me wearing your shirt to me potentially being on an episode of 'Hoarders?'"

Stiles nods hello to everyone at the table, groaning at the gentle nudge in the ribs from Allison. She sets her lunch tray down and looks at him expectantly. "Yeah, alright," Stiles mutters, sitting down. "Scott, can we talk later tonight? There's something I need to tell you."

"Does it have to be tonight?" Scot asks. He throws a small grin at Kira, who blushes and becomes very interested in her sandwich. "Kira and I kinda have plans."

Stiles looks at Kira as if he's just noticing her. He can't help it. It's like someone switched something on in his brain. "Can I come?" He asks before he can stop himself.

Everyone stares.

Isaac snorts into his food. "Can you say three-way?" He mutters under his breath. Allison kicks him.

But Stiles barely notices any of that. "Please? I really got to talk to you, Scott."

"It's that important?" Scott asks. "Is it okay if Kira's there?"

Stiles smiles. "It's great that Kira's there." He states, grinning into his food.

He's not sure why, but he has a feeling. It _will_ be great.

**A/N: There it is! I hope you guys are liking this sort of 'Part 2' aspect of the story. Please let me know what you think!**

**(P.S. So excited/Freaking out with what they're doing with Stiles on the show! It's such a conflicting emotion… lol!)**


	10. Once Upon a Dream

**Hey guys! UM WOW. Can we take a moment to revel in the newest episode?! And not that it's related in any way, but Stiles gets sedated and succumbs to the darkness because he can't wake up… WHAT STORY DOES THAT SOUND LIKE?! Jeff Davis and I must be on the same wave length. I can't decide whether that's a good or bad thing…**

**So, since demon!Stiles is pretty much canon, this is perfect because it's goes pretty much with this chapter. And by the way? This chapter? HOPEFULLY WILL MESS YOUR MIND UP. Not like the first chapters, but I'm kinda hoping I can creep you guys out a bit. (No, I will NOT be singing 'Life is But a Dream' anymore… haha! Different kind of creeps)**

**Also, there seemed to be some confusion in the last chapter (whoops – bad writer! *slaps own wrist*). To clear things up: Stiles got Scott's shirt because Allison had a few from when they were dating. **

**So, let's get started, shall we? I get to bring back something I foreshadowed in Chapter 1! Who's been paying attention?**

Chapter 10

_Once Upon a Dream_

"Why is Lydia here again?" Scott whispers to Stiles, frowning when Lydia cast Kira a reproachful look as the two of them went to get sodas. Lydia's giving Kira a little more ice than he would've hoped, but Stiles seems to not care. Well, not even 'not care,' but more 'not notice.' Which is weird: Stiles notices everything. But his eyes are distant and empty.

Scott stares at his friend, a little alarmed at the sight before him. He was supposed to be getting better after everything. Instead, he looks more haggard than ever, deep circles ringing at the base of his eyes that seem to eat him alive. He's clutching his side a bit and gingerly support himself against the counter. "Stiles?" Scott asks, turning his full attention to his best friend. "Are you okay?"

Stiles blinks. "W-What? Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry. I was zoning out."

"You seem to be doing that a lot lately."

"Yeah," he weakly chuckles, rubbing the back of his head. "I haven't been sleeping very well. I really don't want anyone to give me a sedative again. I'm not sure if I could handle it a second time."

Scott grabs Stiles' shoulder. "We'll figure this out. We always do. We'll find a way to close your door and save you."

Stiles gives another weak laugh and closes his eyes. They seem to be lost in such an impenetrable amount of darkness, it scares Scott. Like he's no longer with him. "What if…" Stiles begins, wincing. "What if it's _me_ you need to save everyone else from? What if the thing that everyone needs protecting from is myself?"

"Stiles, what are you talking about?"

Stiles opens his eyes and they're hollow. "Listen man, about what I wanted to talk to you this morning—"

"Here you are, Stiles," Lydia says, handing him a large soda. Stiles seems so startled by her appearance that he almost drops it. "Normally, I'd lecture you on the amount of sugar that is in this size of a Coca-Cola, but considering your appearance, maybe a little extra sugar would be beneficial." Usually a comment like that would be full of snark, but it's soft. Lydia's genuinely trying to make him laugh. Feel normal. Scott looks eagerly to Stiles, desperately hoping it'll work, but then he hears that pained laugh again.

"You know, you could be concerned for my safety without being condescending." Stiles says quickly. His good-humor doesn't fool anyone. "That's an actual thing."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Lydia sniffs, pulling him into the movie theater.

Scott watches the pair of them, unsure of why he never noticed their interactions before. At first, they walk side by side, but he's startled when the two sort of gravitate toward each other. Even though only their shoulders touch, it looks like Lydia is propping Stiles up. Scott's not sure how that's possible. But it finally makes sense why Lydia's here.

She's his anchor.

"Is he going to be okay?" Kira asks, tentatively handing Scott his own drink.

Scott flinches; he didn't mean to be ignoring her – especially on technically their 'first date' – but he can't help but be preoccupied. "Of course," he says, his eyes never leaving the two until they turn a corner and disappear. "He's Stiles. He's always okay."

Kira bites her lip. "Scott, I have to be honest. He doesn't look okay."

"That's because you're new here." Scott sighs when Kira looks down. "Sorry, that's not what I mean. What I mean is, you don't know Stiles like the rest of us. You met him at a really weird time, but I can assure you that Stiles is going to be okay because he's always okay. I mean, he's survived years with a bunch of werewolves, and somehow he's always the one saving everyone. Figuring stuff out. That's why I know he'll be fine. He's always fine."

"But still," Kira says. "If he's always the one saving you guys, what do you do when it's him that needs saving? He's not going to help you figure this one out."

Scott clenches his fist. He knows he shouldn't be mad, but he can't help it. "He will be _fine_. He's _Stiles_. That should answer the question."

Kira squeaks. "Sorry."

Scott unclenches his fist. "No, I'm sorry. It's just… hard. To see him like this, you know? But he'll be fine. And I know it sounds stupid and optimistic to say the reason he'll be fine is because he's Stiles, but it's the truth. It's a legitimate answer. And if you knew him better, you'd understand. He's Stiles."

She nods. "He's Stiles."

She doesn't really understand, but Scott appreciates the gesture all the same. "He's Stiles."

Kira looks up at him, holding out her hand half-heartedly, as if daring him to take it. She looks away. With a grin, Scott takes her hand into his and leads her into the movie.

By the time they reach Stiles and Lydia, Scott tries not to look too alarmed. It doesn't help that Kira lets out a small gasp as well. Fortunately, Stiles isn't a werewolf, so Scott doesn't think he heard.

Stiles has propped himself up on his right arm, his head drooping and nodding, jerking every time he forces himself awake. The projection makes his skin look ghastly and it genuinely scares Scott. He considers taking Stiles out of the room and asking him what the hell he needs to tell him, but he doesn't want to alarm Kira, who is excited at his side. He leads her into the aisle, sitting next to Lydia. He wonders if it'd be rude to ask her to sit on the other side of Stiles, but is trying to keep it together.

If only this 'True Alpha' thing came with a manual…

But as soon as the lights dim, he forgets. All he can tell is Kira's next to him and their hands are intertwined. It's nice. It's relaxing. It's… an escape. Scott peers over at her and he can tell she's barely paying attention to the movie, even though her face is firmly fixated on the screen. She's biting her lip, trying to hold back a smile, in that adorable way she does, reminding him why he likes her so much.

"Stiles?"

The only thing that could break Scott from his reverie was the soft, broken word from Lydia. Scott turns, his eyes widening.

Lydia is still seated, her hands raised, trembling. "Stiles, what are you doing?"

Stiles is standing over her, his fists clenched at his sides. His entire skin is a pale, disgusting pallor, but that's not what Scott sees. It's his eyes. His eyes are like voids. Empty, dark, and foreboding.

And they're fixated directly on Kira.

Kira shrinks back in her seat, cowering from him. Scott is too stunned to do anything. He's never seen _anyone_ cower in front of Stiles. It's… Stiles. He's Stiles.

Stiles makes a move toward her. It's sharp, quick, calculated, and aggressive. Finally, Scott's reflexes kick in and he's on his feet. He grabs Stiles' arm and tries to hold him to the spot. "Dude, what are you doing?" He cries.

Except, that's not what scares him. Scott has Stiles own hand in his grasp and is shaking. He's… he's…

_Losing_.

Stiles – _Stiles_ – is overpowering him and wrenching his hand down. Scott can feel himself trembling. He's so close to wolfing out, it's taking every ounce of willpower within him to keep himself from doing. "Stiles," he murmurs weakly. "What are you doing?"

The lights come on in the theater.

"Is there a problem here?" A worker snaps amid a flurry of angry movie-watchers.

"W-What?" Scott stammers, totally unaware of how loud they were being.

Stiles breaks the grip, stumbling back. His eyes are wide and full of fear. He brings his hands up to his face, his fingers trembling as he does so. Scott can see him desperately counting, but get lost multiple times. His breathing catches. "Oh – my – God—" He chokes, gripping one of the chairs around him when his legs buckle.

"Stiles—" Scott says, reaching out for him, but he pathetically swats his hand away.

"Don't touch me." Stiles says softly. For words so quiet, they're tucked in with fear.

Before Scott can say anything, Stiles brushes past him, sprinting out of the theater.

Scott whirls to run after him, but the movie worker stops him. "You and your friends have received four complaints."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, but I need to—" Scott says, frantic when Stiles disappears.

"I'm afraid that we're going to have to get your information and put you on—"

"That's great, I send it in." Scott snaps, pushing past the worker and sprinting down the movie corridor. "Stiles!" He bellows, running as fast as he possibly can without receiving any suspicion from those around. He can hear Kira and Lydia running behind him, but he doesn't wait. He bursts through the doors of the movie theaters to the parking lot.

Just in time to see a Jeep peeling out.

**XXX**

"Why are we even here again?" Aidan drawls, leaning against the counter. Deaton eyes him wearily, nudging his elbow away from a few of the supplies. Aidan rolls his eyes.

"We're here because Scott asked us to be." Ethan says.

"We're not even in his pack. Why must we run whenever he calls?"

Ethan shoots Aiden a dark look, which finally gets him to shut up.

Allison runs her fingers through her hair. "I'm assuming Stiles spoke with him and he wants to have a meeting about it." She says, a grim smile on her face. "I knew Stiles would do the right thing."

"What does that mean?" Derek snaps, crossing his arm. "What did he need to talk to Scott about?"

The question hangs in the air when they all hear a slam of the front door. Scott barrels into the room. "Deaton?" He exclaims, his eyes wide and panicky. "Deaton?"

Every ounce of tension from each other dissipates and all of them look at Scott, terrified. When Scott is terrified, it's the last official warning that it's okay to panic. They barely notice Kira and Lydia running in after him.

"Scott, calm down," Deaton states, his voice calm and slow. "Calm down and tell us what happened."

But Scott can't. His mind is travelling too fast and his words aren't stringing together properly. He wants to laugh to himself because he wonders if this is what it's like for Stiles on a normal day, which would make him make so much more sense. But then Scott remembers that 'normal' days are no longer a thing and that only sends him further into a panic.

Allison peeks after Kira. "Scott, where's Stiles?" She waits and waits, but he never appears. "Scott?"

Scott looks up from his panic. With every ounce of focus, he manages to utter one word.

"Gone."

The silence is suffocating.

Allison covers her mouth as a tear rolls down her cheek. Isaac shuts his eyes as Derek's jaw tenses. "What's the big deal?" Aidan asks, snorting. "The dude is like the most visible human on the planet. He drives a shitty-ass Jeep that is less subtle than a tank. He'll be easy to spot."

Without being able to control it anymore, Scott's eyes flash red and he lets out a forceful howl, not stopping until he brings Aidan to his knees. "Shut up!" Scott bellows, barely registering that everyone has their hands over their ears and is shying away from him.

Scott turns, telling himself to calm down, telling himself he needs to be in control because he's the True Alpha, but can't. He's seeing red. He can't calm the fear in his veins, just like he can't calm his wolf-out. That is, until he catches Deaton's eye.

Deaton remains in the corner, his eyes stoic. Calm. Most importantly…

Unsurprised.

"You know." Scott states, his body finally no longer trembling. "You know what's going on."

Deaton remains still. "I have a theory."

Scott steps toward him hotly. "You had a theory and you didn't say anything?" He shouts, slamming his fist against the examination table, making it rattle.

"Stiles never came to see me like I asked."

Scott pauses. "H-He thought he did," Lydia says, her voice small and quiet. "I know all the letters were set fire in Derek's house, but I remember that one. He thought he came to see you and you tried to kill him. You told him he needed to be put down."

Deaton smiles grimly. "Makes sense."

"Makes sense?" Scott repeats incredulously. "_None_ of this makes sense!"

"The best way to control someone?" Deaton states. "Convince the host that everyone who can help they will destroy you."

It takes a few moments of awkward silence until Isaac breaks it. "Controls?"

Deaton nods his head for everyone to follow him, pushing back a few curtains. As the others do, they gasp when they see what he has hiding in his back storage.

A tub.

Not just any tub. A tub filled to the brim with ice. "What the hell!" Scott snaps, storming toward it.

Deaton puts his hand up. "Not so fast, Scott." He says, preventing him from moving any further. "There's quite a few herbs around it that might not work well with your lycanthropy."

"Why would you do that?"

Deaton peers at the tub. "It has to remain cold."

"Can you please just tell us what's going on?" Derek snaps from the back, brushing past the sea of teenagers until he reaches Deaton. "Not in codes, not in weird folklore. What is happening?"

"Peek in." He states simply.

"Huh?"

Deaton nods his head. "The tub. Take a look."

Derek peers over. "It's a tub. It has water and ice. It—"

He stops. Everyone else crowds around it, tilting their heads when they do so. It looks like there's nothing in it. At least, that's what they think at first.

But when they get closer, and when they move to the right spot, something glimmers. Scott tilts his head, moving carefully around the tub. It's so frustrating. What's in it? It has mass, but it's faint. Why can't he make it out.

Eyes snap open from inside the water.

"Oh my God!" Scott exclaims, leaping back. "Oh my God – it's Stiles!"

Deaton peeks in, sighing when he sees the frantic, open eyes.

"He's awake."

**A/N: Alright, so how much do you guys hate me right now?**

**Leave a note/review if you can! And I will return with all the cyber hugs you can stand!**


	11. Because I'm Dreamin' of You Tonight

**Okay! So I WASN'T going to add another chapter this week, but everyone's been so lovely on here, on Tumblr – seriously. You guys are all wonderful people. And the theories people have about the show are incredible! For realzies, it's impressive deduction.**

**It's so crazy how similar elements of this fic are! It makes me laugh now – Stiles over the intercom, the riddles and such. AND AS FOR THE PEOPLE THREATENING TO TAKE STILES AWAY FROM ME… YOU'LL NEVER TAKE HIM. :) And it warms my heart that some of you thought of me during the episode! Oh, how you know I love angst! 3**

Chapter 11

Because I'm Dreamin' Of You Tonight

Stiles doesn't know where he is.

He's wandering, that's true, but that's the extent of his knowledge. "H-Hello?" He calls out, his voice weak. How did it get that weak? It was almost pathetic.

Stiles tentatively raises a hand, blinking to try and get everything in focus. It was hard because it was dark. It was so, so dark.

He hears a rustling.

Stiles can't help but stumble, making something fall off the counter he was propping himself up with, a clattering sound resounding in the room. But what is this room? Why was he even here? And more importantly, how did he get here?

A steady drumming begins. Stiles can feel it in his core; it's making his chest tremble. His fingers quake beneath him as he gazes around.

"Who's there?" He calls, his voice trembling. "_Who are you?"_

**XXX**

"Oh my God, get him out!" Scott shouts, rushing over to the tub.

Deaton places a hand on his chest before he can make another step. "Scott, no." He demands, his eyes widening.

"Why the hell not?" Scott shouts, staring at the shadow of Stiles beneath the ice. "He's _drowning_, we have to get him out!"

Deaton takes a breath. "Yes, I will admit that this is true, but you need to know all of the facts."

Derek, who'd been stewing in the corner of the room, slams his hand against a counter. "Then tell us the facts! You can't just take us into a room like this and demand the world!"

Deaton's gaze falls to Stiles. Stiles' eyes close, losing the fear and petulance. His body fades a bit and relaxes, only turning into shadows. A few people gasp. "W-Where'd he go?" Lydia asks shakily, leaning closer to the tub. "He was right there, he was here."

"Yes," Deaton states. "I wasn't sure of it, but I am now."

Derek's voice is even, but quakes with each syllable. "Why don't you start from the beginning. And make sure not to leave anything out."

**XXX**

Stiles is finally able to get to his feet. It takes him a few tries, but he manages to stand up, surveying the entire area. There are no lights. A shiver crawls up his spine, and he knows his mind is playing tricks on him, but it feels like it's snaking into his head.

All he remembers is the movie. He was at the movies with Scott, Kira, and Lydia and he started to drift off… and then he was here. Everything else was nothing.

His hands are shaking. He can feel the precipice of the panic attack starting, like his toes were at the edge of a cliff and he was being nudged further. He stares at his fingers, counting them over and over, but he always reaches ten. Always ten.

Real.

_Real, real, real_. The terror is always real.

"S-Scott?" He croaks, his voice shaking with every sound. He knew it was a long shot, but even when there was no response, his chest heaves. For some reason, he always assumed Scott would be there, he would always rush in, it never occurred to him to have a backup plan. The plan was always Scott.

What if he couldn't be saved?

He falls back to the ground.

It's like his legs just couldn't take anything anymore and literally collapsed beneath him. His breath is shaky and erratic, but it fills the air like a cloud. It's all he can hear. He knows he needs to quiet down, but what's the point? If anyone is here with him, they already know.

And he has a feeling there's someone here with him.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, desperate tears rolling down his cheeks. "P-Please…"

**XXX**

"It started after the ritual concluded. I noticed there was something off with Stiles – something he wasn't telling." Deaton says, still maintaining a good distance in between the pack and the tub. No one's rushing toward it anymore, but it's clear he isn't about to take any chances. "I assumed it was because Stiles had actually _shut_ his door, but he felt bad that you two didn't reach yours, so he just wasn't going to tell you. I figured I'd let him do that in his own time.

"But then, when I was going to drain the tubs, I noticed something. Something a little off with his tub. At first I thought it was a trick of the light, something that the shadows of the clinic played on me, so I didn't think much of it. I cleansed the tubs that contained Scott and Allison, but then I heard something from Stiles'. The water – it moved."

"Moved?" Scott repeats, his eyes widening. Everyone looks at him harshly, a few people telling him to shut up.

"Yes, Scott. Moved. The water shifted. I can't believe it took me such a long time to realize it. I have to applaud you – your reactions were not as severe as mine. When I saw Stiles in the depths of the waters, I almost reached out for him myself – to pull him out. But then it occurred to me.

"Scott, you mentioned a car accident." Deaton finishes.

Scott doesn't say anything at first, waiting for the story to continue. It isn't until someone nudges him does he get out, "Oh, I'm allowed to talk now?" Lydia casts him a dark look. "Yes – Stiles was in an accident on his way to the Nematon. He had surgery for that a week ago. No one knew how serious it was."

"You mentioned it briefly to me when I inquired about the effects of the Nematon. I didn't give it much thought, unfortunately. I've been dealing with the supernatural for far too long and Stiles has been around, it almost feels like he's supernatural. It's easy to forget the humans. So I didn't give it a second thought. I assumed he was fine. After all, what's a car crash to a werewolf? But the cruel fact is, Stiles is not a werewolf.

"But then, when I looked into the water, I saw him staring right back at me. His eyes wide, full of fright. But it didn't make any sense because he'd just left with you. How could he be in two places at once? But then he disappeared."

"Real or not real." Lydia mutters quietly. Everyone turns to look at her questioningly. Tears are falling freely from her eyes and she's leaning against a wall for support. "It's what he did – the files all on the walls. Real or not real. When it was not real…"

"…he's in the tub." Scott finishes, the realization hitting him like an anvil. "Oh my God."

"S-So what you're saying is," Lydia manages, her voice barely above a whisper. "Whenever Stiles can't remember what's he's done, whenever he blacks out or can't decipher what's real, he's – he's—"

"Drowning." Deaton finishes when it's apparent she's not going to be able to finish it. "Back in the tub. Holding his breath desperately to stay alive. On the wrong side of the door."

Scott looks as if he's about to pass out. "The wrong side of the door."

"I didn't know." Deaton says, the first time they've ever heard his voice crack with emotion. "If I had been thinking clearly, if I knew the amount of brain trauma Stiles incurred due to the car crash, I never would've suggested this. In his vulnerable state – his injury, his mental state – his susceptibility to the supernatural was uncharacteristically high."

Derek growls. "Susceptibility to the supernatural? Can you talk like a normal person and just say what's happening?"

"Stiles isn't Stiles." Deaton states. The bluntness makes Derek wince, even though it's what he asked for. "Or, I suppose I should amend, Stiles isn't _always_ Stiles. But that line? The line of what's real or not real? It's blurring. And his eyes are opening in the tub far more than I would like."

"Eyes are opening in the tub, what does that _mean_?" Scott pleads. "I'm sorry, I just don't understand! Stiles usually is here to explain what I don't get. He can explain it in a way I understand and he's not here – he's in the tub and I'm freaking out and I don't understand—"

"Scott," Allison places her hand on his arm, and his tirade simmers down. She looks as if she's about to cry, but her jaw is set. "There might be something else in Stiles' body. And every time it takes over, it makes Stiles—"

"Drown." Scott finishes, his lip trembling. "That's not fair. That's Stiles' biggest fear."

"What?"Someone asks, but Scott isn't sure who it is.

"Stiles' greatest fear is drowning." He repeats, remembering all the times he had to coax him into pools or lakes. Stiles usually played it off that he didn't want to alarm people with how pale his chest was, but Scott knew what was the real case.

Derek looks at him. "That doesn't make any sense! He spent two _hours_ treading water while holding me up _and_ drowned himself voluntarily – twice! That can't be his biggest fear. He literally travels around with werewolves."

"That's the thing, isn't it?" Deaton says softly, casting a glance over his shoulder. "It's crazy, the things we do for the ones we love."

**XXX**

It felt like he'd been in the room for years, when it probably was only an hour or so. All he'd heard was scratching and moaning. It was awful, like waiting to be executed.

Tears ran freely down his face now, his breath barely reachable. To be honest, he was wondering if he'd pass out before anything got to him.

The thing is, he doesn't think he's ever been so terrified. It burrowed into his body – into his soul. He can't remember experiencing anything like this. Because there was someone here with him, but he didn't know who. He didn't know where he was, what was with him, or even how he'd get out.

_Is this how it ends?_ He thought miserably. To be honest, he's disappointed. There were so many cooler ways to die.

Die.

Stiles' breath hitches at the thought. Sure, he's had close encounters with death and he's _seen_ people die – God, has he seen people die – but he's never had to endure the agony of sitting and wondering about death. About his last breath. The last people he'd see. Shit – he never even told Scott about the forest. What about his dad? Who's going to look after him?

He's sure as hell not going to die on the ground.

Stiles forces himself up one last time, his head whipping around. "W-Who's there?" He calls out, sucking in breath like it's his last one. "I know you're here, so _fucking come out, you coward!" _

_"My dear Stiles,"_ A voice says, echoing in the room. It bounces around, swarming around him like bees, waiting to attack. _"I have no intention of killing you. That wouldn't be very prudent on my part would it?"_

"Who are you?" He screams, the fear eating him alive. A drumming gets louder, repeating over and over again, a steady cacophony of beats ringing in his ears. _Thump. Thump. Thump. _"What do you want with me?"

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

_"I've waited a long time for this. We'll do it together, Stiles. We'll take them out. _

_One._

_By. _

_One."_

**XXX**

"What do we do?" Isaac asks.

Isaac always seems to ground the group back to reality, but no one has an answer.

"Our first order of business is figuring out _what_ has a hold of him. That will determine our course of action." Deaton states, leading everyone outside the room. "We need to act fast. Possession isn't just about control of someone's body – it's about the physical wear it has on the possessed. While Stiles is the ideal candidate for such an undertaking – young, strong, surrounded by the supernatural, and still human – such is his weakness. _He's still human_. So, regardless of what's going on, Stiles' body is going to wear out at some point. The will a point in this endeavor that, even if we expel whatever's got a hold of him, it may be too late."

"How would we know when we reached that point?" Scott asks, clearly struggling to keep his temperament even.

"The short answer is, we won't."

"Do you actually know anything?" Derek shouts. He knows he should keep his temper at bay, but holy hell, this conversation isn't helping in the slightest. "Because we have a real, actual problem."

"I'm sorry if my answers aren't satisfying your need, Derek, but these are the facts. Every human is different. What his body can tolerate is entirely up to Stiles. And in the meantime, I think it's best that no one tells him that the tub is still here."

Allison frowns. "Why's that?"

"Because right now there's a strange relationship happening. Stiles is in what you would refer to as _Limbo_. Neither dead, nor alive. That is dictated by whatever happens next. Whatever's possessing him needs his body to continue functioning, otherwise it's vessel dies and it along with it."

"_Stiles_." Scott says through gritted teeth. "He's not a vessel, he's _Stiles_."

Deaton sighs. "Of course." Scott knows he doesn't mean anything by it. After all, he's been dealing with this supernatural bullshit for years. It's probably easier to remove yourself from it. "My concern is the tub. If whatever's possessing Stiles realizes he's drowning when it's taken over, there's only one obvious answer."

"Drain the tub." Lydia finishes. "It's the only way that works out for him. He can kill Stiles without actually killing his body."

Deaton nods. "And then there will be nothing left to do but kill the body."

Scott's heart palpitates. "We'd have to kill Stiles?"

"It's wouldn't be Stiles anymore, Scott."

It didn't matter. It would still look like Stiles. It still would sound like Stiles. To him, it would _be_ Stiles.

"And if this goes too far, and Stiles stays under water for too long? I'm afraid it'll be the same outcome."

Scott shuts his eyes. This world doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. And he realizes it's because of one thing: he's never had to figure it out. How will he do it now? He can barely handle being the 'True Alpha,' let alone be one 'demon watch.'

"I've been texted you guys for ages!" A voice calls.

Everyone stares, their eyes wide. Stiles marches through the doors of the clinic, his skin still a ghastly color with deep circles ensnaring his eyes. He smiles at them, but it doesn't reach his eyes. They're… empty. Hollow. "Way to make me think you all died." Stiles mutters. "Wouldn't that be the worst thing, like, ever?"

Scott feels a very real fear creep into his chest. "Dude, are you okay?" He asks when Stiles grins at them all, leaning against the receptionist counter. His moments are too still. Too precise. Too… non-flail-ly.

But Scott knows the answer. He only needs confirmation of his fears. He needs to get used to noticing what too him so long before. He needs to come to terms with the fact that Stiles might not be Stiles.

"I'm fine." Stiles states matter-of-factly. There's a vindictive glint in his eyes as he smirks, surveying everyone. "What'd I miss?"

**A/N: I AM A HORRIBLE PERSON. I remember that interview where we found out Dylan's greatest fear is drowning and I may or may not have incorporated it because I'm despicable. **

**Please let me know what you think!**


	12. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**I'm so sorry I've been AWOL – I got so busy! And I need to take a step back because guess what? I was ****_going to have Stiles put a bomb in the school_****. Like, for real?! I need to get off Jeff's mind wave or something. So now I think I need to come up with something else, which is sad.**

**But this next chapter deals with some head-canon things of mine. I've always liked the idea of Stiles playing the piano because it made sense to me – someone who can't stop moving putting it into something creative. And I really don't believe Stiles would want the Bite – although, that may just be my desperate plea for him to remain human? I love human Stiles.**

**Someone asked me specifically what's going on with the tub so here are the highlights:**

**1. Stiles is in Limbo. He's neither alive nor dead.**

**2. I know all the fics have Stiles trapped in his own mind while the Nogistune runs amok, but I liked the idea of having them in two separate spaces: so when Stiles is in control, the Nogitsune is in the tub/the white room where they came out of drowning and vice versa when the Nogitsune is in control.**

**3. The reason Deaton says they can't show Stiles the tub is that, just in case he's not Stiles, the Nogitsune will see that Stiles is living underwater. All he'll have to do is drain the tub, and then he can keep the body himself.**

**All clear? Alright, let's go!**

Chapter 12

_Something Wicked This Way Comes_

They got Stiles homes without much struggle, much to Derek's relief. Not that he thought the demon would try anything when they were all together, but he still tensed every time Stiles moved. The thought of Stiles permanently dwelling in that tub made chills snake up his spine – it's be like someone trapping him with a room of fire. If that wasn't the definition of purgatory, he wasn't sure what was.

So when he woke up the next morning, answering the door to an incredibly wet Stiles, his first reaction was to usher him in out of the rain. And then he leaned away from him, resisting the urge to bare his teeth. "Don't worry," Stiles sighs, the weeks of insomnia present in his voice. It didn't even have a trace of sarcasm in it, which was a weird look on him. "It's me, not some evil demon monster."

Derek stares. "H-How did you find out?"

Stiles gives him a hard look. It seems like ages have passed in his eyes and Derek can't quite make it out. His lower lip trembles and he clutches the sides of his flannel shirt, taking a few moments to recover himself. "I-I didn't, I guess," Stiles says softly. "Until now." When Derek looks horrified with himself, Stiles puts his hands up. "Don't feel bad, I had a feeling it might be something like that. There was something no one was telling me, but everyone looked pretty terrified. Jumped at every movement I made. Jump. _At me_." Stiles chuckles darkly. "I'm not the most terrifying thing in the woods."

Derek resists the urge to say, "_You are now."_ He takes the brief opportunity of Stiles being lost in thought to send a quick text to Deaton. _Stiles is at my place. Is it him or the demon?_

"What are you doing here, then Stiles?" Derek asks when it becomes clear the teen isn't going to come out of his reverie on his own any time soon.

Stiles' head snaps up. "Oh yeah, the reason I came here," he breathes. "It's actually twofold."

"Who still uses that word?"

"Who still uses Internet Explorer?" Stiles retorts. "I like the world twofold so therefore I'm going to use it. Deal with it and don't be such a sourwolf."

Derek smirks, pulling his phone out to see Deaton's response. _As I can tell, it's him. His eyes are closed in the tub_. After those remarks, Derek was pretty convinced anyways. "So why are you here?"

Stiles rubs the back of his head. "Can we, like, sit down somewhere? Maybe? I'm not sure if this is really a foyer-kind of conversation."

That's when Derek finally comes to his senses. He'd been so panicked on whether or not this was Stiles, he neglected to notice what was straight in front of him: Stiles, soaking wet, standing in the middle of his doorway. "Right," Derek grumbles, ushering him toward the living room. "Why are you so wet, did you walk here in the rain?"

"Well, yeah."

"Why in the hell would you do that?"

Stiles gives him a pointed '_are you fucking kidding me' _look. "Derek, I've been actively blacking out. I haven't slept a full night in weeks. Do you really think I should be getting behind the wheel of a vehicle?"

Derek can't help but agree, but is also flustered the idea didn't strike him as well. Maybe he underestimated the kid. Skinny, defenseless Stiles. He wasn't so skinny anymore, but nothing compared to a werewolf standard. He wasn't as defenseless as he once was either. But more than that, it seemed he armed himself in ways that Derek never noticed. An armor that never came off, except in these small, vulnerable moments.

Derek realizes he hasn't answered. "Fair point. Do you want anything to drink?"

"Coffee would be nice."

He almost says something about it, but figures he really doesn't have a right to tell Stiles what he should do. Instead he retreats to the kitchen, mentally preparing himself for whatever Stiles has for him. If it's got him this sober – and compelled him to trek for miles in the rain – it must be something he probably doesn't want to hear.

As Derek listens to the gentle patter of his coffee maker, a soft noise resounds in his loft. He bolts upright, prepared to attack in any way, but then is confused when another sound follows. Then another. And another.

Piano music.

Derek hesitantly enters his living room with two mugs of coffee, peering at Stiles in the corner. He's sat himself in front of the piano, his finger tentatively pressing a few keys here or there. It looks random, but if Derek tries to listen hard enough – despite the awkward pauses – the tune sounds vaguely familiar.

"I didn't know you play."

Stiles jerks so quickly that he actually _falls_ off the piano stool in a move that is so inherently _Stiles_, it actually makes Derek smile in spite of himself. Brushing himself off and standing, Stiles coughs, "Not really. I only know a few songs."

Derek sets the mugs down. "Can I hear something?"

Stiles eyes the piano nervously, rubbing his arm. "I'm not very good."

"You'll be better than anyone who has every played that piano, I promise you. I don't even know why my mother bought the thing."

Stiles bites his lip, looking from the dusty piano back to Derek. After a few moments and a few hand twitches, he sighs. "Fine. But only because I can't imagine something like this going to waste. It's a little out of tune, by the way."

"I thought you said you didn't play well."

"I don't, but I do have ears." Stiles snorts.

He settles back on the piano stool, taking a deep breath. The first few notes are shaky and it's clear he hits the wrong key a few times. But after those few slip-ups, Stiles closes his eyes and lifts his chin to the ceiling as if the music was actually flowing through him. He was calm. Not in the demon-possessed calm, but a calm that was more suited to Stiles. Like a bundle of potential energy that was slowly and healthily filtering out.

If this was 'not well,' Derek made a mental note to never return the favor and play one of the three simple songs he knew.

When Stiles hits the last note, he stays still a few more moments, his fingers hovering over the white keys. Then it's over.

Stiles twirls around, giving Derek a loopy grin. "So, yeah. You should learn how to play that thing."

Derek can't help but be aghast. "You're so full of it, Stiles," he mutters, shaking his head. "_Ave Maria_ is one of my favorite songs."

Stiles lifts his eyebrows. "Really? It was my mom's too. That's why I know it. She taught me how to play. Well, as much as she could while she was still coherent." Stiles winces, his eyes going far in the past. Derek knew that look. He employed it often. "She was really great. Trust me – if you think what I did was good, if you could've heard her, it would've blown your mind. Like, it wasn't even music, it was just an extension of her, if that makes any sense. She was awesome."

Derek nods. "I'm sure she was."

"She started teaching me when she was first diagnosed," Stiles rambles, as he sometimes did when he was uncomfortable. "She thought it'd be good with my ADHD, you know? Like, I could channel all that energy into something. It actually helped. More than I let on because I was like, seven, and what seven-year-old wants to admit they like playing the piano? Anyways, when she died, my dad got rid of her piano because he couldn't bear to look at it anymore. I tried playing a few more times, but I could tell it was too painful for him. She used to play for him to make him smile." Stiles drifts off. He closes his eyes and Derek can see the weeks of exhaustion all over his body. He's surprised the kid hasn't collapsed yet.

Derek clears his throat. "You said your reason for being here was twofold."

"Right!" Stiles exclaims, lifting his head up. "Twofold!"

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop saying twofold."

Stiles rolls his eyes, but joins Derek on the couch, taking one of the mugs of coffee. "Firstly, I wanted to know if you maybe still had all my notes? I'm sorry I left them all over here – I just didn't want anyone to know that there was anything wrong."

Derek sighs. "Because that's always a good idea. Not telling the people who care about you that there's something fatally wrong with you."

Stiles puts his hand up to his ear as though it was a phone. "Yes, hello? Pot? It's the kettle. You're black."

He scowls. "Regardless, I don't have them anymore. Someone lit them on fire."

"Oh my God, who?"

Derek shrugs. "Add that to the list of things we don't understand right now."

Stiles buries his face in his hands and groans, "Is there even, like, _space left_ on that list?"

"Sorry."

Stiles doesn't come out from behind his hands. But Derek supposes that's where they are now. A few months ago, it would seem fairly inconsequential, but now? Even the smallest of victories would be helpful. And all the boy has seen as of late are losses. "You said you had a second reason?"

Stiles finally looks up. "Huh?"

"You've said twofold in my loft more than I've ever heard it in my life."

"Oh, right," he says, growing more somber, if possible. "I need a favor." Derek prepares himself. He could tell there was something heavy Stiles needed to ask him, but he hoped it'd be something he'll laugh about later.

Of course, it's not.

"If I start doing, like, _bad things_ – like killing people and overall mayhem and such – I need you to kill me."

Derek's eyes, without meaning to, flash blue. _"What?!"_ He bellows, standing straight up and looming over Stiles.

Stiles doesn't even flinch. Is this where he's at in his life? Where the skinny kid doesn't even move when he towers over him. "Derek, I need you to kill me if it gets to that point."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Derek shouts, clenching his fists. "What makes you think you can barge into my house and demand something like that of me?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "First of all, I did not barge. I knocked on the door and you answered. Secondly, I did not demand, I asked. And thirdly, kindly calm the fuck down."

Sucking in a breath in lieu of punching him in the face, Derek returns to the couch. "This is one of your weird jokes that I don't understand."

"I'm not kidding."

"What the hell would you ask me to do something like that?"

"Because, you're the only one I could think of who would."

If anything, that makes Derek see red more than anything. "Oh, because I'm such a horrible person that you just assumed that I'd be first in line to murder you?"

"Will you please calm down, I'm almost embarrassed for you." Stiles says, surprisingly calm for what he's asking. "And of course not. You won't do it because you're awful, you'll do it because you're good."

"Stiles, that is quite possibly the stupidest thing you've ever said to me and that is saying a lot."

But his face says this isn't a twisted joke. He's calm, collected. Only his hands are shaking, but he busies them with his coffee. "Derek, I'm asking you because it might need to be done. I don't know what's possessing me or what it's planning, but I do know it's bad. Sometimes I can hear him. Sometimes he's in my dreams. I mean, I woke up, towering over Kira, ready to kill her. _Kill her_, Derek.

"I don't know about you, bud, but I can't recover from that." Stiles says, running his hands down his face. "Killing someone? I-I'm not – you see, i-it's just…" He sighs. "Dude, I wouldn't recover. I couldn't recover. I know myself. I can't be a monster." Stiles takes a calming breath that trembles, so he tries a few more times. "So if it comes down to it, if it comes between me and innocent lives? It's them, Derek. It's gotta always be them. I can't have their blood on my hands."

"Stiles, listen to yourself. Listen to what you're asking me to do." Derek pleads, the weight of his own blue eyes feeling particularly heavy. "You're asking _me_ to kill an innocent."

Stiles shakes his head. "You don't get it. I won't _be_ an innocent anymore, Derek. I can't keep going like this. It's getting harder to fight off. Harder to come back. It feels like," he closes his eyes and presses his thin fingers against his forehead. "It feels like I'm drowning. And there's no way out." He bites his lip. "I'm so scared of drowning."

"Stiles," Derek states, trying to keep his voice from cracking. Watching the emotional demise of the hyperactive teenager that used to annoy him is not something he ever wanted to witness. "You can do this. Just give us a little more time, we'll figure it out."

"I'm trying."

The words are small. Pitiful.

Heartbreaking.

Then he looks up, Stiles' eyes flashing. "But you have to promise me, Derek. Please. Promise me you'll kill me if it goes too far. I can't go to Scott or anyone else. No one can know."

"Stiles—"

"_Please_."

How can he deny a plea like that? Drawing in a deep breath, Derek grits his teeth. "Fine. But only if it goes too far. I'm waiting until the last possible second."

"Works for me," Stiles grins, leaning back into the couch, his eyelids weighing down.

It looks like he's about to drop the coffee mug from his hands, so Derek takes it out of his grasp. "Why don't you try to sleep a little bit?"

"Can't," Stiles breathes, but he doesn't open his eyes. "I lose when I sleep."

"I'll be here."

"I'm not sure I will," Stiles jokes, tapping his head.

"Not funny."

"A little funny."

"_Not_ funny."

"I'm hilarious," Stiles groans, his words barely intelligible. "You just… have… no… sense of… humor."

By the time he reaches the end of the sentence, Derek can tell Stiles is asleep.

As he takes the coffee mug away from him, Derek can't help but feel the weight of the promise he just made. It… wasn't right. Offering to kill the best friend of Scott? To kill Stiles?

But would it be better?

Derek slams a hand on his kitchen counter. He should've just said no. He should've to Stiles that he was overreacting, that he was quitting, that he was giving up.

But after looking at the rings under his eyes, listening to him talk about drowning – would it be more merciful? Safer for everyone?

His phone vibrates. Derek frowns, pulling it out of his pocket. "Hello?"

_"Derek, it's Deaton. Is Stiles still with you?"_

"Yeah, he's sleeping on the couch."

_"Get out of there right now!"_

Derek startles. "What?"

_"He opened his eyes, Derek. Stiles is back in the tub, he opened his eyes."_

"Miss me, Sourwolf?"

Derek freezes.

As he turns around, he has to tell himself to prepare for what he's about to see. But nothing could when he does.

Because it looks like Stiles.

Except not.

He's holding himself a different way, his jaw is set, and his hands are still. Stiles cocks his head to the side, lifting an eyebrow at the phone in his hand. He clicks his tongue.

"You might want to tell him you'll have to call him back."

**XXX**

_"Stiles, man, where are you? You were gone before I got up! Dude, you should've woken me up! Call me back right now!"_

_"You went to Derek's? Why the hell would you go to Derek's? Answer your damn phone! There's a reason you own one."_

_"Dude, you're freaking me out. I'm gonna go over to Derek's right now. Isaac's coming too."_

_"We just got Deaton's call. Stiles. Call. Me. Back."_

_"What did you _do_?"_

_"Son, it's your dad. I'm gonna be a little late at work. See if you can have dinner at Scott's."_

_"Stiles. Please."_

_"Stiles, why aren't you at home? Call me back and maybe you'll avoid the grounding of a lifetime."_

_"Stiles, where are you?"_

He presses 'delete' as soon as they come in. Approaching the sign on the lamp post, he grins.

There's his vessel. Caught mid-smile. His face projected for the entire town to see.

**MISSING SINCE MONDAY**

_STILES STILINSKI_

_If you have any information, please contact the sheriff's station immediately._

He snorts. They'll see him soon enough.

**A/N: Alright, alright… I know I suck.**

**So if you have a moment, leave a note? How's it feel that this little fic-y is back?**


	13. Because It's Pretty

**Hey guys! I'm back! I have a feeling that the next episode will be a little more backstory, so I'm hoping it won't throw me entirely off. I've decided since I'm going a different route than Jeff (I'd imagine so at least, but with my track record, you never know), that I'm going to incorporate different elements different ways. I want to use the Echo House, but I don't want to do it the way Jeff did it, personally. **

**Someone asked me how much longer this will go, and since this is essentially around the middle of what I deemed 'part two' of this pseudo-two part story, I'd say there's about 4-5 chapters left. There were a few things I set up in the beginning chapters that will come to fruition this chapter, so we'll see how it goes!**

Chapter 13

_Because It's Pretty_

The thing about chess is, it's not about the board. It's about what the board will look like in one play. Two plays. Five plays down the line. So playing chess isn't really about accepting the reality in front of you. It's about guessing what the reality will be in a few moves. It's all about guessing, it's all about planning, it's all about figuring it out.

So, there is a riddle: what do you do when you take the person who figures it out, out of the equation?

What do you do when the person who thinks three moves ahead is no longer able to do so? The person who is always figuring it out figures it out not because they're seeing the entire chessboard, but because they see the chessboard for what it'll be in the future. What happens when you take that person away?

Chaos.

Pain.

The shadow purses his lips, standing at the edge of the beach, wincing when the waves tickle his toes. It's not like he feels it anymore, but there were times the human body shivers. It must be cold. He's not sure, though. It's such a human sensation that he may never understand, but he's not sure if he wants to.

The shadow clutches his chest and feels the faint flutter of the heartbeat. It's a little more erratic than the typical person's but it's so very human. He could feel Stiles within his bones, but it's getting weaker. Less distracting. The shivers and the ticks are slowly disappearing. He awakes less in the tub.

Soon it'll all go away.

He knows the humans are afraid of Bardo, but he welcomes it. It's when the fun really starts. It's when everything that once defined this human – this Stiles, whatever the hell that was – will be gone. He will no longer feel the twinges of inattentiveness, he will stop twitching, and he'll stop fighting the urge to talk a mile a minute. All of that will be done. Because Bardo doesn't happen to Nogitsunes.

Only humans.

**XXX**

Scott sits on the edge of his bed, unable to fall back asleep. He's lucky if he gets more than a few hours the past few days, unable to being himself to disappear from the world for more than a few mere moments. There's a light tapping on his door, but Scott doesn't answer. He knows she'll open the door anyways.

"Honey," Ms. McCall says, walking in. "It's almost time for school."

Scott laughs. It's empty and humorless, but the entire situation is hilarious. School at this moment in time? Not even in the top ten list of things he cares about. But he'll continue to go if it means any sense of normalcy and peace of mind for his mother. "I'll take a shower in just a second."

Ms. McCall joins her son on his bed, the both of them staring blankly at the wall in front of them. After a few moments, she says, "We'll find him."

"Oh, that I know," Scott mumbles, bringing his eyes to the ground. "I'm more afraid of what we'll find once we do. Deaton said that there's a point when the human part of Stiles dies and all that will be left is whatever's controlling him. That – at that point – even if we figured out how to get rid of it, it won't be Stiles anymore. He'll already be dead."

"Scott, that won't happen."

"But how do you know?" Scott asks, his voice cracking a little. He genuinely wants to know the answer because he can't think of anything at the moment. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know you." She states calmly, reaching over to grab his hand. "And I know Stiles. I know what you two are capable of. And I know that, even though this is terrible, you two will figure out a way to make it back to each other. You always do. You guys have been through so much and are still standing. You got through your dad's leaving, Stiles' mother dying, you turning into a supernatural creature—" she playfully nudges his shoulder. "You'll get through this too. Like you always do."

Scott tells himself this over and over. Because it's true, for the most part. But what he doesn't say – what he doesn't tell his mother for fear not only breaking her heart, but his own – is that there was a difference in those instances. In those instances, it was both Stiles and Scott together, working for a common goal. Whether it be comfort or a solution to a supernatural problem, they were in it together.

This was not the case anymore. How can they be 'in it together' if one of them wasn't even

'in it?'

Ms. McCall squeezes his hand again. "How's Derek?"

Scott frowns, remembering his last conversations with the man. Once they got the bleeding to stop and once they got Derek to stop shouting about how he was going to wring Stiles' neck (although he was certain it was out of embarrassment for being bested by 'skinny, defenseless Stiles'), Derek went into a dark stupor. Even after coaxing, he didn't make much sense.

"…confused."

**XXX**

When Stiles wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that he's no longer in Derek's loft. The second thing he realizes is that he is freezing. Like, he should be snuggling against a polar bear freezing. Like, sitting on an igloo freezing. Like…

Just emerging from a sixteen-hour ice bath, freezing.

Stiles takes a few minutes, lying on whatever icy-hell he's stuck to, unable to prop himself up without stars dancing around his eyes. His head is pounding like a drum. It's driving him crazy because it beats steady, as if a war is coming. Maybe one is. That's not a thought that Stiles would like to entertain, to say the least.

The third thing he notices is his hands.

The third thing he notices is the first thing to get a true reaction out of him: he throws up.

Propping himself on his elbows, Stiles retches next to himself, wincing when he feels some splatter on his arms. But that wasn't as bad as what was on his hands.

Stained a faint red, Stiles knows what the color's from. His fingers start to tremble and he doesn't know how to stop it. His breathing becomes more ragged and he knows that he's on the brink of a panic attack, but only one thought hits him: he's entirely alone.

There's no one to save him out here. No one who can talk him down.

So instead, his chest heaves, his mind screams, and his lungs fail. Maybe it's better this way. He'll never figure out whose blood is on his hands, just as he'll never figure out how to survive having a demon inside his mind. Would it die with him? Or would it persist to torture another human? He desperately hopes for the former.

_"Now is not the time, Stiles_."

Stiles is broken from his panic to the rough, terrifying voice. He leaps to his feet – an action that is far too dynamic for his mental state and he stumbles. "W-Who's there?" He shouts.

Then he realizes where he is.

His legs are resting against the Nematon.

He scrambles backwards and falls off, his back slamming against the ground. _"Are we really going to play this game, Stiles? You know exactly who I am."_

Stiles sprints. Sprints in a way that Coach never was able to get him to do in practice. Sprints in a way that may even give Scott a run for his money. Sprints until his lungs are on fire and he can't breathe. Sprints until he—

-collides right into the Nematon, his stomach slamming against the top and making his head smash against the wood. "No," he mutters when the daze lifts. "No, no, no."

_"I'm the voice in the back of your head. The shadow you cannot escape. The nightmare you can't wake up from. _

_I am the result of a door."_

**XXX**

Derek's annoyed, to say the least.

A flailing, insane, weak, gangly, seventeen-year-old_ human _got the jump on him. If that wasn't enough, Scott made sure there was someone with him at all times, just in case Stiles came back because obviously he couldn't handle himself against the small boy. Derek runs his fingers through his hair in some feeble attempt to calm himself down, but it doesn't work.

Tracing the lines of where there once was stab marks – the wounds were long gone now, but he _felt_ like they were still there – Derek tries to sort through his thoughts. None of it made sense. The nogitsune's movements didn't make sense when he attacked him. It wasn't… what he expected.

"What are you thinking about?" Someone asks him, looking up from a stack of books he was sorting through.

Derek scowls. "I can't believe Scott convinced you to do this."

Chris Argent gives him a smirk. "It makes sense. The kids have school, which is easy to forget about during all this supernatural bullshit. Someone needs to be here during the day." He states.

"Oh no, I get why he chose you to babysit but I can't actually believe that you agreed."

Chris shrugs. "I like to surprise people."

"I've had a few close encounters with death that would support that statement." Derek growls and Chris only laughs at him. But when Chris won't stop looking at him, Derek sighs. "I'm just—" he groans again, shaking his head. "Trying to make sense about this entire ordeal. Stiles—"

"—getting the upperhand on you?" Chris finishes.

"You know I can actually hear you smiling from here, so if you could not be such an asshole about it, that'd be great." Derek says. "But it's more than that. He could've killed me."

Chris flips a few more pages. "Yeah, he could've. You're lucky."

"But why didn't he?" Derek wonders aloud, the question that had been rolling around in his brain for what feels like ages finally tumbling out. "I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything. He was too quick, too sharp, too powerful. It's like—"

It's foolish to think and Derek doesn't want to entertain the thought.

Chris finally puts his book down. "Like Stiles is fighting through for control?" He asks.

"No, it was definitely the Nogitsune," Derek muses. "It's like… it's like they were one. One entity. Not Stiles, not the Nogitsune, but both functioning at the same time."

Derek knew he sounded crazy and Argent was giving him a look that he expected.

"When he attacked, there would be a slight hesitation. Or there would be times he would blink that would be so inherently Stiles that I could've sworn it was him, but it wasn't." Derek says, frowning. "Like the Nogitsune doesn't know how to be in Stiles' body because it has too many quirks and weirdness, that he actually physically cannot be in it. I don't know," he finishes with a huff. "Sometimes was off. It _was_ the Nogitsune, but it _wasn't_ and I'm not sure how that can be."

"Like," Chris says, getting up from his seat. "That there may be a part of Stiles which is subconsciously trying to protect everyone? Like a third persona?"

Derek runs his hands down his face. "I know it sounds impossible, but—"

"We live in a world where a 'Nogitsune' is something we've been using in our everyday language. These sort of things stopped surprising me a long time ago." Chris says with a chuckle. "Did everything get damaged in the fire that burned all of Stiles' documents."

"Yeah, everything was destroyed," Derek mutters. "Everything except—" His eyes light up. "This may be a long shot, but there was one thing that survived."

Derek rushes to the living room, Chris following closely behind. He grabs Stiles' bloodied shirt from the corner – he couldn't bring himself to touch it because it seemed like something Scott should do, but of course that though probably never crossed his mind. "This survived."

Chris takes it in his hands. "Besides being a little grotesque, I'm not sure if this is entirely helpful."

But when he shakes it a few times, a weird crinkling noise sounds. They both frown, so Chris reaches into the shirt. His face is still as his fingers graze against the dried blood, until he takes them out, something in his palm. Derek leans in – silently cursing his life and how he's somehow become this comfortable with an Argent – anxiously waiting until Chris unfolds it.

"What is that?" Derek asks.

Chris looks at him plainly. "I have no idea."

The picture is wrinkled and torn, a giant red circle marked in permanent marker around the building. All Derek can think is that it's a place he would not ever willingly enter into. An old building with tall towers and grungy walls, gated in cast-iron. In the gates are the words "Eichner House."

Chris sighs. "But something tells me that Stiles wants us to figure it out."

**XXX**

"I swear to God, Greenburg," Coach Flinstock says, nearly breaking his chalk in half as he attempts to calm himself. "If you ask me one more question about Kensian theory, I'm kicking you off the lacrosse team. We all know you did the reading, so you should know it better than 99% of the idiots in this class."

A wave a giggles runs rampant in the class, but Scott can't bring himself to smile. It's been a week. Well, technically seven days, six hours, and twenty-three – no, twenty-four minutes since Stiles disappeared. That thought made his hair stand on edge. All he wanted was to see him. See him alive, no matter the state.

But there was a small voice in the back of his head that asked him if it'd be easier if Stiles didn't come back. Then he wouldn't have to entertain the thought of potentially killing his best friend. Scott shakes his head, appalled with himself. Stiles has to come back. He'll figure out a way to save him. Because there is no Scott without Stiles. He couldn't do it. The idea of having the world without Stiles Stilinski is too much for him to even fathom. It makes his stomach churn and his mind grow fuzzy.

"McCall!" Coach shouts. "Can we at least pretend we're paying attention? I know that—" Coach stops mid-sentence and his face grows ashen. He takes a breath. "I'm sorry, I know this must be a difficult time for you." He mumbles quickly. Coach only show that moment of affection and vulnerability for a second. He then straightens up and then barks, "Which reminds me. If any of you even gets a whiff of Stilinski, you find the nearest teacher or cop and report it immediately. People who participate in the city sweeps in search of him will receive extra credit for the class. Anyways—"

Coach continues as if he didn't just offer extra credit to someone who helped find a missing kid.

It's moments like this that Scott seriously considers if moving away from Beacon Hills would be beneficial to his life.

Scott peers out the window, knowing that anything Coach could say about economics would not interested. Instead he tries to find some hope in the weather, which of course means it's overcast and dreary. But then he squints. There's a figure slumped on one of the outside picnic benches, his head lulling like he's about to fall asleep. "Oh my God," Scott breathes, shooting up so quickly from his desk, he knocks it over.

He sprints out of the classroom before Coach can shout his name.

Scott has to actively tell himself to slow down, as to not get into 'supernatural speed,' but it's almost no use. The briskness of outside eats at his face, but that only makes him panic more. "Stiles!" He exclaims, rushing over to his best friend, whose eyes are drooping low. "Stiles, are you okay?"

As soon as he reaches him, he realizes two things that make his heart palpitate. One: No, his best friend was not okay. Deep circles ate his eyes and his lips were colored a light blue. And Two:

There was blood on his hands.

Scott checks his best friend over, scared by the slowing of his heart. "Stiles, can you hear me? Can you hear me, buddy?"

Stiles lifts his head, his gaze haunting and hollow. "Scott, I think I may be drowning and I don't know how that's possible."

His eyes roll back and he collapses into Scott's arms.

**XXX**

Everyone's huddled in the room. Scott knew if Stiles woke up, he'd be a strange combination of pissed, embarrassed, terrified. But, the chances of Stiles waking are slim.

The Sheriff doesn't move from the doorway, his gaze never leaving his son. Scott knows that he hasn't been sleeping either and he isn't sure if the Sheriff will tear his gaze away from Stiles anytime soon. "Thank you," he whispers to Scott, but Scott shakes his head.

"I didn't do anything," Scott mutters. "I just found him. I haven't figured out how to save him. I haven't done anything."

The Sheriff places a hand on Scott's shoulder and stares into his eyes. "You brought my son back to me. That's something. That's more than something to me, Scott."

The blue in Stiles' lips are fading away, but his face is so pale, Scott focuses on his heartbeat to convince himself he's not a corpse. It's not steady, but it's there.

As long as it's there, right?

Allison clears her throat. "My dad just texted me a picture that they found at Derek's place. Have you guys ever heard of Eichner House?"

The Sheriff looks up. "That's the mental institution that Barrow was in. Why?"

Allison frowns, waiting for a response from her father. When he finally gets back to her, her frown deepens. "He says he and Derek found it in the loft. The only thing that didn't get lost in the fire. He says that Derek has a theory that Stiles might be leaving things for us." She looks up. "Leaving things for us? What does that mean?"

Lydia, who'd been pressed firmly against the wall without saying a word ever since they managed to get Stiles cleaned up and in bed, spoke up, her voice rusty. "Like a riddle." She says, stepping away from the wall. She gazes at all the pictures and strings taped up on Stiles' wall. She'd looked over these with Stiles a handful of times, all the red string incredibly overwhelming. Except there's something different this time.

Lydia approaches the wall, her hands shaking. Scott asks, "Lydia, what is it? What do you feel?"

"I-It's not that," Lydia says, brushing her hands against the wall. "Some of these strings are blue."

Everyone stares. The Sheriff looks upset. "What does that mean, Lydia?"

Lydia turns to all of them. "Green is for solved. Yellow is 'to be determined.' And red is unsolved."

Scott frowns. "The wall is mostly red."

Lydia nods. "Mostly. It was all red last time I saw it."

The Sheriff stares incredulously. "Then what does blue mean?"

Lydia winces at his harsh tone. "I-I don't know. H-He said—"

"He said _what_?"

"Blue is just pretty."

Scott looks at his best friend, who's lips are still tinted a faint color of blue. It sends ice down his spine. His eyes travel across the wall. There are four blue lines. Four distinct blue lines. They all connect to various points of the wall. The Sheriff Station. The High School. Eichner House. And…

Kira's shaky voice is heard from the corner of the room. "…is that… _my_ house?"

**A/N: What do you think? I think there is about 4 or 5 chapters left! Any guesses of what's going on?**

**If you could leave a note, I'd really appreciate it! Much love!**


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